


The Selkie's Fury

by ravynfyre



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magical creatures, F/M, there will be no fucking artax and the swamp of sadness here - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-10-21 06:33:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17637602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravynfyre/pseuds/ravynfyre
Summary: The Immortan is the Sorcerer who controls this bit of the Wastes since the Cataclysm, using the Power he steals from the shapeshifting Wives he keeps prisoner: Angharad the Bear, Capable the Fox, Toast the Wolf, Dag the Swan, and Cheedo the Heron. Furiosa, however, is bound and determined to see them all free of the cruel bastard, with, or without their Skins, because life free, stuck as a mortal Human would be better than as a slave that gets to Shift at Joe's whims now and then.And then the damned feral Cursed Mage Knight has to stumble into her plan.





	1. Fruit of the Golden Tree

**Author's Note:**

> Ultimately, this all came from the following writing prompt on Tumblr crossing my dash:
> 
> _“Oops, dropped your coat!” You cheerfully pick up the soft fur coat off the floor and carefully drape it back over the person’s chair. They stare at you with wide, stunned eyes. They’re remarkably attractive. You awkwardly wave at them and go sit down at your table._
> 
> _They’re a selkie, you “gave” them back their coat, you now have a gorgeous and besotted selkie spouse. Hey, they don’t make the rules._
> 
> and my brain dumped this whole Plot Thing on me. And kept expanding it. So... I decided to write it. I hope you don't hate it.
> 
>   
> __________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

He is known as The Immortan. His reach is vast, though his lands are small. They say that he stood upon the battlements of his Citadel on the very day that the Cataclysm cleaved the land into the wastes that they have become, and watched as the Drakes scoured the green and the blue from the world before taking their Power with them into the void. They say that the Immortan, himself, made a deal with those Drakes, sold his very Soul, for the Power he wields, to hold his lands and his War Boys and his Wives.

And so, the Wretched gather at the base of his towers and beg for his scraps, hoping against hope for one more day, one more morning, one more moment. The Immortan is their Salvation. Without Him, there is no blue water to quench their thirst, no green food for their bellies, no gold Power to sate the gnawing of their souls. Beyond the circle of lands that the War Boys hold “safe”, the Wretched have learned that the Wastes suck away every Mote of Power for any unlucky enough to stay too long. And so, they cling to their Immortan, and beg and grovel and hope that he will look down upon them mercifully this day and open the gates to bring them another day, another morning, just another moment of life.

Little do they know that it is from the Wretched, themselves, that the Immortan sucks away that golden Power, pitiful dregs of it that it may be that he can gather from them. Little do they know that all living things make their own Life, shed it like motes of dust, though these poor wretches have so little to spare. Little do they know how very diminutive their precious Immortan’s knowledge is about the sorceries that he casts from the skin-bound book that he stole before the Drakes scoured the lands. Little do they know how very few spells that their precious Immortan actually can cast from that cursed tome. 

And so, he casts his few spells, sucks away their tiny motes of shed life, draining their miserable existence into even deeper levels of want and despair, only to cast it back out over them again, in a pale illusion of generosity. From his own War Boys, he subtly drains all but their recklessness, their rage, their ferocity, and feeds what he has taken from them back in a thin miasma of frenetic restlessness. From his stonemasons and his greenthumbs and his cooks, he sucks away all the hope and wonder and ambition, all the interest in life’s little joys until there is just the Work. Nothing but the Work. And no curiosity to look for anything beyond the Work.

And little by little, his lands sicken more and more under the drain of his rapacious spells.

Only a few remain untouched. His Sons, for they must someday stand in his stead, and so must learn to wield his spells and his Power as he does, and so cannot be muddled by those very spells. His Imperators, for they must remain clear-headed enough to direct his reckless War Boys. And his Wives, because their anger and their pain IS a source of his power.

Besides, he has very, very different spells for them.

His Wives are the bulk of his Power, and always have been. He only has five, at the moment. Five Favored, that is. There are dozens of Milking Mothers yet, and he draws upon them and their despair, still, too, for despair is a potent power. But the anger and the rage and the hope that comes before the despair are much more powerful, still, and so, there are only the Five. Well, the Five, and Furiosa.

Angharad, the Splendid. The Beautiful. The Bear. Capable the calm. The free spirit. The Fox. Toast the Knowing. The feisty one. The Wolf. The Dag. The angry one. The Swan. Cheedo the Fragile. The sweet one. The Heron. His beautiful, lovely shapeshifters. His Wives. And Furiosa, the Selkie. His Once-Wife, now wrathful Imperator.

All carefully collected, traded, stolen, or bought at great expense just for him. Ensorcelled to the Immortan’s hand and no other’s, but not tamed. Oh, never tamed, his Wives. That would shatter the bulk of their Power! Relegate them to the Milking Rooms! No, never tamed, his beauties. 

First comes the Sleep, long and deep, to keep them under his hand until he has completed the rest of the sorceries he needs in order to bind them to him. Next from the Grimoire of Skin, is the Unbinding, the spell that breaks the tie between them and the Source of their Shifting. Be it Curse or Gift or Word or Blood or Tradition, he has yet to find any were-creature or shifter whose Source has been strong enough to resist the Unbinding. And once Unbound, the Immortan can gather up their Shifting and Bind it into whatever Source he wishes; he always Binds it into Skin.

There have been those, however, that he has not had to go through so much to bind to him. His angry Dag, the Swanmaiden, and Furiosa the Selkie. There have been several swans and selkie, and even a fox and a wolf clan maiden over the years, that have saved him considerable power and trouble by coming to him with their shifting already tied to Skin. He had needed only to place the Sleep and take their skins and then hide them with the rest. Usually, though, there is the Sleep, and the Unbinding, and the Binding. And then he must remove her skin and conceal it before he awakens his new Bride.

With a kiss, of course.

Oh how sweet those first moments are, when his new Wife finds that she cannot shift, cannot touch her Power, cannot escape. When he explains that only HE can bring back her skin to her, and only HIS hand can return her shifting to her… and he will. Someday. If she pleases him.

How sweet that first bright burst of despair and anguish is. That rage. That fire. It is like a drug, and he gets so drunk upon it, and even more when he explains that his death will not bring her skin back or end the spell, but will, instead, doom her forever to a life as a mortal human woman. But, yes, if she pleases him, he will bring forth her skin someday and let her shift. For a little while. To amuse him. For it is his skin to control now, as she is his Wife now, no matter what her life before may have been. Search all she wishes for her skin, her Power, she will not find it, for it is the Immortan’s now. 

Would it not make them all gnash their teeth with frustration to know that their skins are there in the very domed oasis that he keeps them? Hanging upon a glittering, golden Tree of Power is every Skin of every Wife that he has ever had from the first days after the Cataclysm, right up to his fragile little Heron, Cheedo, all carefully preserved. Hidden by the most powerful spell he can wield, a Glamorie that conceals the Tree and it’s precious burdens from everyone but him, all the skins hang, patiently waiting. It amuses the Immortan to leave these skins so very near to their desperate owners, with those women so none the wiser. If only they knew, if only, if only. 

But, just in case fickle Fate curses him with one who actually CAN pierce the illusion of his most powerful Glamorie, a safeguard, and a gift in one for his most perfect son, the one not yet born. The son who must one day wield this power for himself. For each skin hangs, concealed, waiting, dozens upon dozens of them, and far too many of them for the Immortan to alter all of the spells on in his advancing years, to key them to the son who is not yet born… and so, the spells that keep them upon the tree, the spells that keep the Shapes locked within the Skins, must merely have a male hand to free them. No woman may remove these skins. No Wife may simply don her own Skin unaided and expect to find the Power within. It must be a male hand to tug upon the shining cord that connects each Wearer to each Skin, and Call it down from the branches, and hand it forth to the Wife. It must be a male hand to grant the woman the Boon of the Use of the skin, and to set the terms of each Use. And so, Immortan’s Son That Is Yet To Be will be able to wield this power, and the only spell the Immortan will need to key to him will be the Glamorie. A quaint conceit, if he does think so himself.

Now, if only he could at last get him that Perfect Son, for his previous sons have been… lacking in one way or another. There is good promise of Him within Angharad’s swollen belly, finally. Time will yet tell. For now, the Immortan will continue to send out his War Boys to raid for the spoils and the magic and the mortals he needs to keep his place in this broken Waste secure. And he will visit with his Wives, and let them entertain him. 

There are other bellies to fill, in the quest for his Perfect Son, after all.


	2. Clipped Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max and Interceptor have a run in with War Boys. It... well, it doesn't go well.
> 
> ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

He stands overlooking the bleak plain, a listless wind barely stirring the beard he has not shaved in many years. His grey eyes do not see the distant ground, however, as he shifts minutely to take weight from his bad leg. Ghosts flicker through his memories, their voices howling in his skull, their eyes accusing in his vacant stare.

_Where are you going, Max?_

_What have you done? Why’s your armor gone all tarnished?_

_You promised to help us, Max!_

_Where were you?!_

_MAX!_

The grizzled man suddenly stumbles forward as his mount shoves him in the small of his back with her nose. Before them both stretches a wide open plain of desolate powder sand. Behind them, scrub hills and low crags and broken arroyos with little to recommend them to anything but perhaps a band of desperate kobolds. 

_Really_ desperate kobolds.

He shakes himself, runs a hand over his matted mane of dark hair, and scowls at the dappled-black, winged horse who wickers nervously behind him. The mare snorts, paws the ground with one unshod hoof, and tosses her mane, ears twitching toward her tail as he stares at her for a long moment. 

Hoofbeats. 

Distant, but many of them, and drumming hard. No good ever comes of meeting groups in the Wastes. Especially not large groups, running hard. Max curses with a rough cough, thankful that Interceptor is at least already saddled, as he throws his cup and canteen into the open saddlebag. His bedroll, he doesn’t even bother trying to roll up, but merely folds in half and tosses over his saddle before throwing himself over the top of it. He barely has his hands fisted in her mane before she is racing down the shallow ridge onto the powdered plains below, shedding another three primaries, and a secondary feather in her wake, courtesy of the molt that is keeping them both grounded in the first place.

Why? Why, why, why, WHY does she have to be in the middle of her molt!? Why now? They could already be leagues away in the air, if she hadn’t been missing a good quarter of her feathers! Of all the blasted rotten luck! Why here, and why now!?

Behind them, the first of the riders they had both heard reach the ridge behind them. There's still time for luck, perhaps. Maybe. Maybe the riders will pass by on the barely-there road above, not drop down onto the plain. Maybe the riders will turn south, and back into the scrub. Maybe the riders have business elsewhere, and no time to spare for one moth-eaten pegasus and her feral, patchwork-clad rider. Max spares a look under his arm, curses again in a low growl, and hunches lower over Interceptor’s withers, keeping his weight balanced with her every stride to give her every bit of speed he can. He should have known better than to hope for any tiny sliver of luck; he’s Cursed. He isn’t allowed luck.

A dozen riders pour over the ridge in pursuit, and behind them, three wagons, each drawn by teams of four swift, long legged drafts. Every rider is painted up like a ghoul, with dark, sunken eyes, and shaved heads, and pale, greyish paint on every bit of exposed skin. They howl like bane-sidhes and whoop like war dogs, and the first heavy crossbow bolts and light, barbed spears begin to thunk into the ground on either side of Interceptor’s hooves.

His mare is fast; when she is at full health, and has a good feed in her, Interceptor is as fast as the wind itself. But the molt has taken so much energy from her, sapped so much of her normal vigor, and the browse lately has been worse than usual. The things the ghoulish pursuers are riding - some are almost horses, though many look like they have the teeth of wolves and other things instead, and some of the other beasts look less like horses and more like the bastard offspring of goats and dogs and the twisted fever dreams of a demon's nightmare - have clearly had better forage, and a lot more rest, lately, because they are gaining, and quickly. Their shoes and tack all have the rich glow of enchantments, which are no doubt helping, and many of the ghoulish figures' weapons are likewise ensorcelled. Even the wagons are magicked, and are catching up, and the one pulling up closest looks to have some sort of bulky ballista, whose missile glows brightly to his Sight.

Max can’t risk her. He can’t. He _can't_. She’s all he has left. She's all that _is_ left. She’ll be able to run faster without him. Without him, she may even be able to manage something near her normal speeds. Without him, she’ll be able to ditch the saddle, get free. Maybe someday, they will find each other again. They’ve done it before. They can do it again. If he survives the fall... and if he doesn't, well, she'll be free, and so will he.

Although he doubts his Curse will let him die so gracefully.

He’s reaching down to give her neck a final pat of farewell, when he hears it. It’s loud, less a crash, than a thud, less a thud than a bang, less a bang than a crash.

They’ve fired the ballista.

He kicks his feet free from the stirrups and shoves backwards from the saddle, even as the massive net slams down over the top of both of them. Interceptor goes down under the weight of it, tumbling to her right shoulder in a long, hard skid, but, fortunately, manages not to land on her wing, or either front leg. Max is thrown forward into a fold of the net and is trying to stagger to his feet under the net’s weight before they have come to a stop, struggling to drag his knife free, his sword, anything, to cut them free, to cut the ghoulish bastards down. He can hear Interceptor scream, hear the ghoulish bastards yelling as they begin to leap on top of her, trying to restrain her before she kicks loose of all the rope. He whirls around, trying to cut his way to her, and is hit from three directions at once. There’s a moment where he can’t even breathe, all he can do is look up through a gap in the ropes, see a skull-like face grinning down at him, then the flat of a sword, coming fast.

He has only an instant before the darkness descends to think a single agonized thought...

_...i'm sorry Int-_


	3. Feral Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You didn't expect Max to just... roll over, did you?
> 
> ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for unwanted sexual contact of Max while he is in an unconscious state at the very, very end of the chapter. If that's a concern for you, stop at the branding, and skip to the next paragraph.

They call themselves “War Boys”. They call him a bloodbag, and property of the Immortan. He’s heard rumors of this “Immortan”. Immortan Joe, so called Sorcerer of the Citadel. Like most Wasteland rumors, they range from “just another sleight of hand artist” to “god-like power over life itself”, with no knowing just exactly where the truth actually lies between. Somewhere in the vicinity of “his own standing army of fanatics”, apparently.

It takes ten of these “War Boys” to hold him down as they sheer his hair and beard like a gods damned sheep. Max feels the faintest, distant hint of pride over that, because that had come after they had force marched him all the way back to the Immortan’s Citadel, shackled and chained to the back of Interceptor’s saddle, and her, hobbled with enchanted chains, with an enchanted bag over her head to keep her calm. His last sight of her had been when they had led her off to the stables carved into a high stone cave, reached by way of a lift powered by what looked like mortal slaves. It had taken five of the War Boys to haul on his shackles and chains to drag him away to their “Organic Alchemists Lair”, or whatever the hell this shithole was.

And now, said Organic Alchemist is busy tattooing something _on his back_. Max can feel his rage rising even higher. For once, his Curse is being… helpful. He can feel the enchantments on the ropes holding his wrists and ankles… slipping. Twisting. Sliding. Squirming away from the touch of his flesh. Repelled by the touch of his Cursed magic.

All at once, his limbs are free of everything but the weight of the War Boys. War Boys who, though fighters, are barely on the cusp of manhood, and nothing so fit as even the squires Max had once had to pit himself against in his own youth, much less the Knights he had once trained against day in, day out, for years on end, and that is without the strength of sheer, unadulterated rage besides.

The Organic Alchemist has no warning at all, as pale bodies suddenly fly outward in an explosion of raw fury, ropes dropping uselessly to the floor. Max plants his feet against the Alchemist’s ample belly and launches himself forward, knocking over another who had been approaching with a hot branding iron. He doesn’t hesitate as he dashes past, but snatches up the branding iron as it is dropped, swinging for the first pale body that attempts to interpose itself in his way. There is a sizzle of burning flesh, a sharp scream, and the dim hallway is clear. Max runs. Another pale flash, and Max brings the branding iron up in front of him like a lance, puts all his weight behind it and charges, growls with fierce joy at the howl of agony and the stench of burning skin. He lets go of his improvised weapon when his momentum threatens to spin him around; better to lose it than to lose the distance he is putting between himself and his captors.

Around a curve in the stone corridor, he catches a whiff of manure, and follows it. He has to find Interceptor. He cannot leave her here. A War Boy appears from an intersection ahead, and Max charges forward, drops his shoulder at the last moment, catches the War Boy in his gut with his shoulder and _lifts_ until he hears the boy’s skull crack hard against the ceiling stones. The body tumbles over his shoulder and falls behind him with a wet thud. Behind him, there are shouts, and the sounds of other bodies falling, tripping over the new obstacle in their path. Max has no time to gloat, no space in his mind for something so sophisticated as gloating. He is reduced to a single thought – escape.

Ahead, there is a door made of metal bars. Max hits it hard, and it takes his mind a precious moment to parse the hinges, to see that it opens towards him. He yanks it open, squeezes through, yanks it shut again and tries to find something to jam it with, but there are suddenly shouts _behind_ him now. He’s found at least part of the stables, but there are more War Boys here, too. He has no time to try and jam the door, so he turns and runs for an open space where there are no pale bodies blocking his way.

He isn’t going to be able to find Interceptor like this. There are too many War Boys, too many enemies. He has to escape, find someplace to hide. He can come back for her. It makes his chest ache like fire, and he shakes his head as he turns sharply down a row of stalls to evade a trio of War Boys. He can’t leave her. He can’t. He _has_ to. But he _can’t_. He can't.

Someone throws a rope at him, that slaps roughly against his back, then slides past before dropping to the straw-strewn floor. There’s a shout of confusion from behind him, and a few moments later, the enchanted rope is thrown again. It probably has a tangle spell on it, but the spell can’t find purchase on Max through the haze of his Curse. The persistent War Boy gives it one last try before giving up and trying to tackle Max himself, but Max just dodges into a stall and scrambles over the back wall into the next stall. The goat-dog thing in that stall looks very startled as Max dives under it’s clawed feet to slide into the next aisle, where he staggers back to his feet.

It is the moment that he takes to decide which direction to run, that is ultimately his downfall. It is that moment that gives the first War Boy the chance to tackle him from behind. That War Boy gets kicked in the head, and a savage bite to his hand for his troubles, but the delay is enough for four other War Boys to catch up, and pile on. In the end, it takes twelve of them to subdue Max, and fourteen of them end up with at least one dripping, ripped open, vicious bite from Max’s struggle to escape them, as he is reduced to use any and all weapons that he can. 

He is unconscious when they drag him back to the Organic Alchemist, who decides that discretion is the better part of valor, and opts to get the branding done while Max is still out, rather than risk yet another outburst otherwise. It’s not kindness, just pragmatism. He also opts to collect the seed they need for the Milking Mothers before Max awakens, because he is fairly certain that fight will be even _more_ epic, until they get him hung in the cage – although there is a nasty part of the Alchemist that wonders… just how many War Boys it would take to milk this feral mortal of his seed, if he were awake and not shackled and hung and half bled out? Maybe one day, for fun, he’ll let the Boys have a go at the Feral to find out. It’s been a good long while since they’ve had a spot of fun like that, after all.

For now, though, best done before he wakes, so they can get him shackled proper and in his cage. And muzzled, too, from the looks of it. The Organic is careful to dig out the chains and muzzle with the heaviest sorceries on them, and directs the War Boys to hang the heaviest cage with the most potent enchantments on it. Heavy enough to practically hold a _demon_ that setup is. Should be plenty enough for a mortal feral man. 

But if that show is anything to go by, that feral’s blood should be better than good for the War Boys for many moons to come. And, a Universal, too. Hell of a fine catch for the Immortan. Maybe a good enough catch to be worth a reward… 

And there just happens to be a War Boy or two who took a couple of _very_ nasty injuries from that feral that might be better off being put out of their misery rather than put back together. It’s been so very long since the Organic Alchemist has had a right and proper feed, himself. His hat’s gone all dry and brown and crusty, it’s been so long. Surely the Immortan wouldn’t begrudge him _one_ little broken War Boy, now, would he?

Never hurts to ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do apologize for these initial chapters being so sort. Just sort of setting the stage and a little tone and back story for some of the later stuff. I'm hoping to make later chapters longer and meatier. Hope these work for you. Thank you kindly for reading.


	4. Organic's Lair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max wakes up. It's not necessarily a good thing. The Organic Alchemist is a creepy Bastard. Heed the warnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, there's cussing. Max is a teensy bit upset, and his internal monologue is... salty.
> 
> Second, The Organic Alchemist is a creature called a Redcap. They murder things. They are called "Redcaps", because they dye their caps red with the blood of what they murder. In this world, they also eat what they murder. The organic, in particular, prefers his food... uh... a little bit fresher than fresh. As in, not dead yet. So, if you can't stand a little soft core gore, or cannibalism, I have marked the section to skip with "**". It really isn't very explicit at all, but I want to make sure that folks don't get triggered.

When he awakens, everything is metal and pain. Max can feel the pull of his skin from the deep burn of where he’s been branded at the base of his neck, and the stench of his own seared flesh is thick in his nose, warring with the underlying fetor of blood. His shoulders ache from where his arms have been pulled roughly behind his back and shackled with wide, thick irons, heavy with an oily, writhing enchantment that roils against his skin like thick ooze. There’s matching shackles, wide and heavy, almost like an abbreviated half-boot, and a stout, heavy chain between them that run through the bars of the cage that he’s been stuffed into. The cage itself hangs high above in a darkened room, with skylights that filter down a depressing, faint illumination – not much to see by, just enough from where he is confined to see if it is night or day outside, and not much else. 

Of course, the bloody metal _muzzle_ strapped to his head restricts some of his vision of everything anyway, and every damned bit of his restraints roil and swirl with the same sickly enchantments. Thick. Heavy. Confining. Solid. Serpentine and swirling. Nauseating almost, as the spells seek to keep him from worming his way out of his restraints, and so powerful, that they almost blind him with their brightness, until he tones down his Sight a bit.

His Curse burns at their touch, flares as his anger awakens. The spells flare back and smother the marks his Curse has seared into them.

But only for a moment.

The spells recoil, then flash out again, as Curse and Enchantments war against each other for supremacy. Max snarls quietly, shakes his head as he watches, then winces. That hurt. His head hurts. What the hell did they do to him?

His fucking head hurts, and his shoulders ache, and the brand burns, and his knee feels like there’s glass shards grinding away at the joint inside as usual, and his ribs feel bruised, and he just fucking wants _OUT_ \-- and his Curse seizes upon all that pain and fury and turns it into sharp teeth that gnaw against the spells confining him. Max pants shallowly and shifts, and shoves, and jams himself against the sides of cage, but there’s no way to leverage the bars apart, not without tools, or at least hands free. Eventually, he has to give up, slumping into the bottom of his cage in defeat.

It’s finally stopped its swinging when there’s a noise at the door; the Organic has returned.

Max glares, watching as the Organic Alchemist strolls in with a War Boy slung over his shoulder. Bastard seems happy, which means that Max is probably not going to like what’s going to happen. Anything that makes any of these bastards happy is no good in his book. The War Boy gets slung rather carelessly down onto a table in the middle of the room, which is much bigger than Max had originally thought, now that he’s looking beyond the bars of his own cage. Max revises his original opinion, just a little bit; watching the white-painted body get flug down onto the table like nothing more than a sack of rocks, with no care to any injuries actually made him feel just a tiny, little bit better. He still probably won't like what will come after, he figures, but he will take whatever tiny little slivers of joy he can in this miserable, agonizing shithole of a situation.

The room, though, now that he’s paying attention, seems to be… some sort of… Infirmary? Maybe? There’s half a dozen, maybe a dozen, of those tables like the one the War Boy just got carelessly tossed onto stretched down the center of the room, with littler tables beside, like where one would place tools, which is exactly what the Organic is doing now – placing a roll of leather that he’s opening up and laying out. It’s filled with bright slivers of metal that shine in the lantern lights that illuminate each table. They look like… scalpels, knives, probes, and other odd things. Each table seems to have a little drain in one end, and the room smells of blood, old blood, the kind that sticks to the stones and never really goes away, no matter how much water you throw at it. 

To either side of him, Max can see other cages like his, although, none of them seem to have enchantments quite as… robust as the ones on _his_ cage. They all seem to be filled with other men, and there are other cages just like them across the room, hanging over a long, low ledge carved into the stone, just like the one under his side of the room. All the rest of the men here have been quiet; most of them seem to be asleep, or just in apathetic fugues, from what he can see in the gloom from as high up as he is.

Below, the Organic has stepped away from the War Boy, vanishing into another room near the door he’d originally come from. On the table, the War Boy remains motionless, except for his chest, rising and falling as he breathes. Blood pools around his head, and slowly trickles down the table toward the end with the drain. A couple minutes later, the Organic returns with a cup and a pitcher, glancing up towards Max’s cage. He grins when he sees that Max is conscious, a thin trail of spittle dripping from his lips. 

**

“Oy, did a number on him, did ya, feral.” Organic sets the cup and pitcher down on the little table next to the roll of tools. “Bashed his skull right in.” Now he reaches for one of the War Boy’s arms, lifts it up, and lets it go, watching it just flop back to the table like a dead thing, a wide, almost gleeful smile upon his face. He turns that smile on Max, and licks his lips obscenely. Dips his finger in the runnel of blood on the table. Sucks his finger clean with a loud _pop_. “Shall I save y’a cut then, feral?”

Max tucks his chin tight to his chest until his vision is a sharp, narrow band between his furrowed brow and the top edge of the muzzle, bares his teeth, and _growls_.

The organic merely laughs, and then turns his back disdainfully as he begins selecting a knife from his tools. “Best then to settle in, feral. The Immortan was quite pleased with ya. You’ll be here for the long haul.” The knife flashes in the lantern light, blood begins to flow from a sliced vein in the War Boy’s arm. The Organic sets the pitcher below the drain of the table, then takes off his cap and begins carefully rolling the fabric in the flowing blood, dabbing and turning the fabric to cover every bit of it until the dark, crusty rust brown is once again a bright, vibrant crimson. He holds the hat out at arm’s length, admiring it for a long moment, before plopping it back on his head.

“But I _do_ thank you for the feast.”

Max growls again, then shifts as much as he can so that he doesn’t have to watch the fucking Redcap as he carves into the still living War Boy. 

**

Fucking Redcaps. And they call _him_ a “feral”. The moment his Curse burns through these enchantments? He’s going to shove that entire bundle of instruments right through the Organic’s liver. Maybe his brain. Maybe his liver and then all the way up through into his brain. He misses when he used to hunt the fucking things down. Back when he was still worthy. Back when he was still a Kni-

No. 

Don’t think about that.

That time is gone.

Nothing good ever comes of thinking about Before.

FUCK, why won’t his head just stop _hurting_?

He needs to sleep. Sleep would be good. Even if the nightmares come, they’d be better than listening to the fucking Redcap _chewing_ right now. And his head hurting. And his shoulders. And everything. Everything fucking _hurts_ , and usually he can ignore pain, ignore the hurt, but this time it’s just _everywhere,_ and why can’t he just not feel it, and there’s nothing else but his _thoughts_ to distract him right now. His thoughts and the sound of the Organic fucking _chewing_. 

Please, he’ll take the dreams, send him the dreams, he _deserves_ the dreams. He _knows_ Just… Everything _hurts_. 

He finally catches his breath when part of the moon wheels slowly into sight through one of the holes carved into the ceiling high above him. He can feel the collar of his shirt pulling against the scab of the burn of his brand, tearing the edges of the flesh loose as he shifts, awakening a fresh wave of pain there, but he doesn’t care. It’s a distant worry, now. Everything has finally faded to a numb sort of ache, pushed away into the back of his skull where everything else goes when he just doesn’t want to exist any longer. When it’s just him, and nothingness. Except it’s wrong, because it should be just him and Interceptor and nothingness…

But she’s trapped somewhere else, and he doesn’t know how to get to her yet. Have to wait. Wait for the right time. Wait for the Bindings to break. It will come. All he can do is wait. Wait and survive. 

And then kill everyone who gets in his way. Just like always.

Just like Before.

Sleep finally claims him before the last sliver of the moon slips out of sight.


	5. Broken Dreams and Broken Bindings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max swims between the past in his dreams and the present in the BloodShed as he bides his time, waiting for the right moment to try and escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a couple of spots of implied rape in here. And me saying that here is actually more explicit than it gets in the chapter, so If seeing it said here doesn't bother you, it shouldn't bother you there. 
> 
> There's one pretty rough scene of a child/baby injury/death. We all know what happens to Sprog in the movie. When you get to the dream sequence where there's a bold section of "wakeupwakeupwakeup", skip to the end of the italics to get past the gore part, and just know that's where I include a version of that here, basically. Basically, if there's anything that you had a hard time with in the very first Mad Max Movie? It's probably mentioned in this chapter somewhere. So, uh, skip the parts that are in italics. Those are all dream sequences, which are basically this settings version of the first movie, in condensed form. Some of it is graphic. Some of it isn't. I'm trying not to be _too_ graphic with things, but... I have a pretty skewed bar for what "graphic" really is? So... just let me know if you think I need to tweak warnings or something, okay?
> 
> Also, this is a much longer chapter than before. Finally getting into the meat of some things. Hope it works for folks!

_”A fine, strong lad, Sir Rockatansky!” Sir Goose congratulates him, slapping him on the back heartily._

_He smiles, watching his wife dandle their little Sprog in her arms as she rests under the shade of a wide oak tree, her bright blue dress pooled around her like a soft cloud. A dryad peeks over her shoulder and waves a thin branch of buds just out of reach of tiny baby fingers. Jessie laughs; Max feels something in his chest warm with the kind of contentment that comes only in a bard’s wondertale._

_“He is.”_

_“Well then, shall we ride, Max?” Goose is still smiling, as he turns toward his mount, a shining, golden palomino pegasus with bright green eyes._

_Max is turning toward Interceptor…_

_//No, don’t go out there. Don’t take this--//_

 

Max jerks roughly as the bottom of his cage drops out from under him, ripping him from his dream. There’s a sharp jab of pain in his back as he’s punched with something hard.

“Hey, easy there! Don’t damage that one! He’s a universal! Valuable livestock, that one is!” The Organic protests, coming up and shoving a snarling War Boy away.

Max twists from where he’s hanging from the shackles around his ankles, turns to snap at the retreating War Boy, but that only earns him a heavy cuff against the back of his head from the Organic, awakening his headache once more.

“And none of that from you, feral. I told you, you’re here for the long haul. Best get used to it.”

He thrashes a bit, trying to smash his metal muzzle into the Organic’s face, but the fucking Redcap had been anticipating that, and only leans back out of the way far enough to avoid getting hit, before aiming another punch for the back of Max’s head. It makes him see stars for a moment. Long enough, at least, for the Organic to grab the side of his muzzle and drag him in close. Then there’s a sharp prick of pain in his neck, the sting of a needle sliding into his flesh, before he’s released, and left to swing back into position facing the stone wall.

“This ought to take a bit of the fight out of ya,” Organic says, the smirk evident in his tone. 

Max twists about as much as he can, enough to see that the needle is apparently connected to a long tube that runs to another needle, that the Organic is sliding into the arm of a sickly looking War Boy. 

The Organic rises from his crouch and pats Max against the side of his muzzle. “Now, you just be a good little bloodbag, feral, and we’ll see how much fight you have in you after we drain a bit of that into this here War Boy for a little while, shall we?”

Max snarls again, twists and thrashes, but he can’t reach either the Organic, or the War Boy below him, and the needles stay firmly in place. The Organic merely laughs, and walks away, leaving him to flail impotently and drain into the ghoulish warrior. Max gives up after a few minutes, already feeling dizzy from hanging upside down, his head aching from the Organic’s tender mercies, and from his position. He spares a look at the War Boy, suddenly noticing the subtle glow of some sort of enchantments on the kid, and others on some of the gear the kid is wearing. Max can’t help but snort out a mirthless little laugh. 

Someone is going to be in for a bit of a shock in a few days, when his blood _really_ takes effect. He only wishes he could be there to see it happen. Stupid assholes. Take his Interceptor. Take his jacket. Take his freedom. Now they take his blood. Deserve what’s coming. Every one of them. So dizzy. And tired. Fucking head hurts again. 

He hopes it all goes to shit in a really _glorious_ fashion.

Assholes.

While the kid is... driving a… wagon. yeah... that… would… yeah…

 

_He turns back, but the tree and the dryad and Jessie and Sprog are all gone. Goose is still there, and his mount, but--_

_The stallion is down, crashed to the ground, one wing shattered, twisted underneath the broken body, a lance run through his chest, blood all across the once golden coat. The bright green eyes are dull, flaxen mane burned half away, feathers scattered in a wide arc about the broken body. There are sooty clouds overhead, lighting arching dangerously, and beyond, the forest is burning. Max can hear the screams of Dryads, as they try to defend their trees, as they are caught and cannot flee._

_Wait. Goose. Where did he go? Where is Goose!?_

_Behind him, Interceptor screams, her hooves striking the dry ground sharply. He turns._

_//Please don’t. just--//_

_For the briefest of moments, he almost thinks it’s a Fire Sprite. Or an Efrite; he’d read about those during his squire days. But then it moans with Goose’s voice, and collapses into a heap, and over it all, he hears someone laughing. They’re laughing, as Goose moans out in his death throes. Laughing. Laugh--_

 

He feels the jolt of the latch of his cage being jerked open an instant before he’s jabbed with that damned, sharp pole again, right at the base of his spine. He tries to resist, tries to keep himself tensed up, braced against the bars of his cage, but that jab against his back makes his legs spasm, and he tumbles out again.

Below him, a War Boy is groaning through gritted teeth, though the two on either side of him, supporting him as they dump him into place on the stone ledge, are laughing, cracking jokes about their latest “run”, and the mediocre performance of the boy who will apparently be getting his blood this time. He grunts, still swimming his way out of the nightmare, too disoriented to put up much of a fight against the Organic this time as the needle jabs back into his neck. 

At least this time he’s given a ration of salted broth while he’s hanging , not that it’s any treat to try swallowing upside down. Especially when the literal child assigned to hold the skin for him keeps getting distracted, letting the liquid trickle down into his nose, and half drowning him instead.

If this is how this Organic Alchemist “takes care of” his “valuable livestock”, Max doesn’t even want to think about what these other poor bastards around him have endured. No wonder they all look three quarters dead, and never so much as even utter a loud breath, much less put up the least bit of token struggle.

Well, let them rot, then, in their apathy. He’s getting out of here. He is. He’s already losing track of how many days it’s been, losing himself in nightmares and dreams that keep replaying themselves over and over, sometimes picking up where the last left off, sometimes starting over again from the beginning, sometimes skipping ahead to the inevitable wretched conclusion. He’s already lost track of how many bastards have gotten his blood, liquid poison eating away at them, if only they knew, though none have broken down yet, so it can’t have been too long yet... but he can see the damage building up on the spells on his bindings. 

It’s only a matter of time.

He’ll get through this.

If this fucking child doesn’t drown him first.

 

_If not for the swiftness of Interceptor’s wings, Max would have missed these month’s of his son’s life. Of his wife’s sweet smiles and quiet words of calm and soothing kisses. They might have been the only things keeping him sane, these past months, as he had stalked and hunted, tracked and traced, forced himself to crawl through the seediest bits of the underbelly of all the seven kingdoms on his self-appointed mission._

_Tonight, though… Tonight, it ends. Tonight, Goose will finally be avenged._

_//turn back...//_

_Max has left his armor behind, his surcoat and arms. He is dressed only in heavy leathers, anonymous and nondescript in dark brown and dusty grey. The only nod to his normal attire, is the sword tucked into his belt, the hilt a plain silver steel, with a crossguard of stylized wings, and a pommel of a stylized horse’s head, also in a simple silver steel. While others in his Order may seek more fanciful, more ornate engraving, Max has always eschewed such things in favor of simpler, more humble things. But even the simplicity of his normal sword is concealed under a wrapping of thin, black leather, tonight._

_//it’s not too late...//_

_He can not use another blade, a different blade, though. No. Johnny the Boy must die by _this_ blade. If he could but use it, Max would have used Goose’s sword, but that one had been interred with the slain Knight some months back, besides. So it must be by his own sword, rather than Goose’s, but it must be _by his own sword_ and not any other simple blade. The anger in his heart will brook nothing less._

_After tonight, though, it will be done. After tonight, Goose’s murderer will be slain, and Max will be able to return to his family, and his duties with a clean and open heart._

_//don’t do it. please...//_

_He listens for the serving girl to leave, for the soft thud of the door, before he slips through the window._

_“Hello Johnny.”_

 

Max jerks awake, gasping, legs kicking against the cage, as the dream seems to shake him by the scruff of the neck for a long moment, before spitting him out. 

“Well, then, sounds like the feral just volunteered,” the Organic drawls from somewhere down below. 

That’s all the warning Max has before the bottom drops out from his cage and he drops down again. He’s already weak and dizzy from his previous drainings, too much, too soon, but every drop of his blood in these bastards is a slow poison, ticking away at them, so the more they take _now_ , before the effects start showing up, the better. 

He still can’t stop himself from giving at least a little token struggle, when the Organic reaches for him. It just earns his another cuff to the back of his head, but, fortunately, the headache has finally dissipated, and the smack is nearly as half-hearted as the struggle.

“Still feisty, eh? Good. These poor bastards could use some kamikrazi feral in them,” the Organic snickers. He’s none to gentle as he jabs the needle into a new spot on his neck, though.

Max bares his teeth, making sure to twist enough to catch the Redcap’s eye before he moves away to get the other end of the tube set into the War Boy. “I’ll kill you,” he hisses, just loud enough for the Organic to hear.

“HA!” The Redcap bends down to insert the needle in the War Boy before rising back up and grabbing Max by the side of his muzzle, pulling him around so that they can see each other eye to eye. “Have a hard time doing that, what with you bein’ all,” he pauses, waving his free hand at the cage and the chains and the shackles and the muzzle, with a leering grin, “otherwise encumbered and all. But you keep that fightin’ spirit up, boyo. It’s good for you.”

Max… merely smiles. 

Well… it’s less a smile than it is a continued baring of his teeth, with a certain maniacal glint in his eyes, and it may lose just a little of the effect, being seen upside down, but it’s something _like_ a smile. Of a sort. A serial killer sort, maybe. Which should, realistically, make it feel downright cheerful to the Organic Alchemist, but even he feels just the faintest shiver of unease looking at that expression, though he plays it off with a cough as he releases his grasp on the metal muzzle and lets Max swing freely.

“Bah, fucking crazy feral. You’re going to die in that cage. You just haven’t figured that out yet. Better start getting used to the idea, feral. You’re just meat for the machine here.”

 

_The farmhouse is dark as Interceptor and the two horses pound into the empty barnyard and slide to a stop. Max dismounts before Interceptor has even halted, swinging around her rump toward the riding horse to help Jessie off. Sprog is swaddled tightly against her chest, as he bundles them both through the door, inside, and then leads them through the kitchen into the main room, and then into a little study along the back. There, he pushes against a bookcase and opens a secret door, that leads to a set of stairs down into a little hidden cellar._

_“I’ll leave the packs in the barn, and then lead the horses out. Stay here until I get back. No matter what,” he orders. “They’ll follow the tracks. Even if they check the house, they won’t be able to find you here.”_

_//but they will…//_

_“Be careful, Max,” Jessie whispers, reaching for him as she hesitates at the top of the steps. “Don’t do anything foolish.”_

_“I won’t. I’ll come for you. I promise. You’ll be safe here. I promise. Just go. I’ll be back,” he says urgently, trying to push her onward._

_//don’t leave her//_

_She leans in for a chaste kiss upon his cheek, and then turns to rush down the steps into the darkness below. He watches her vanish into the black, takes a breath to steel himself, then steps back and secures the secret door._

_It only takes a few minutes to dump the packs with their food and supplies into a corner of the barn, hidden under a rick of hay, before he is back out into the yard. He snatches up the riding horse’s reins as he dashes past, vaults into Interceptor’s saddle, and kicks her into a sprint, back out onto the road._

_//stop...//_

_He needs to make speed, make distance, get as far away from the little farm as they can as quickly as they can. He needs to lead Toecutter’s band away, get the bloodthirsty bastards as far from Jessie and Sprog as he can. If he can get them even a day’s distance, he’ll send Jessie and Sprog ahead on Interceptor, and go alone on foot, to keep them safe. But he has to get the distance between them first. Four, five hours ride down the road. That should help. It will only take Interceptor an hour to fly that back. He’ll stop at every empty house and cottage along the way, just dismount, run in, and lay a false trail. Then get the horses to the edge of the nearest city, and turn them loose and send Interceptor back to the farmhouse. It will work._

_//it won’t. it won’t it won’t it won’t///_

_It will have to._

 

It’s deep night when he shudders himself awake. Only a third of the infirmary table lanterns are lit. and there is cloud cover over what bit of moonlight there may have been, because the blue glow from the skylights is faint and gloomy. No one else around him is awake. Max can hear faint snores from the other cages hanging nearest him, the odd creak or groan of chain as someone much further down the line shifts to get more comfortable, making their cage swing and chain grate upon itself. 

Down below, there are no War Boys on any of the tables, no pups curled up in the corners, no War Boys reclining on the blood shelf. It is empty and calm and quiet, save for the sound of Max’s breathing as he tries to calm himself down. So far, there’s always been something, some noise, some activity, some trigger, that could have accounted for his startle awake. Max does not want the Organic Alchemist to figure out that it is not merely being here that plagues Max’s dreams, that brings nightmares and night terrors. That is not a weapon that he wants the Redcap to have.

Although the Organic makes no appearance, Max manages to make himself passably calm in but a few moments. His heart, however, does not cease it’s rapid tattoo against his ribs for many minutes more, and it is even longer before he is able to stop bracing himself so hard against the sides of his cage.

He’s only just managed to relax, as much as he can in this fetid cave, when there is a scuffling sound at the doorway. Max half closes his eyes and feigns sleep, watching through his eyelashes, as two War Boys steal in, talking quietly to one another.

“Wot ‘bout that new feral?”

“No way, mate. Organic would skin us alive. S’posed to be some special Universal or sump’in. Nah, I’m inna mood to _break_ sump’in tonight. Ain’t chu?”

“Aye yeah. Still… Itchin’ for a good fight…”

“No. Way. I ain’t crossin’ the Organic over a fuck, mate. You do that on yer own sum oth’r time. Now, help me git this’un down already.”

Max can feel himself tense, feel that simmering anger that never seems to leave him, just boiling up inside as he realizes what these War Boys are here for. As he takes in the long, thoughtful pause. His hands clench into tight fists behind him, and he quivers with pent up fury--

“Aye yeah, yeah. Fine.”

The ever-present glare of the sorceries on his cage that hold him contained suddenly give one last flare, and then sputter out and die. Max slowly lets out the breath he was holding as he forces himself to relax, to listen, to watch.

It’s dark enough, and the War Boys stay to the far end of the room near the door, so all Max can really see is indistinct pale forms, up on the blood shelf. He can hear the creak and rattle of cage and chains, and the rustle of cloth against skin, a soft groan, and one of the War Boys commanding something to, “Be quiet.”

And then the rustling is moving toward the door, and the noise fades away.

There’s an empty cage at the end of the line come morning, and it’s occupant never returns.

 

_There is smoke on the horizon, as Interceptor’s wingbeats carry him over the forest in the last stretch toward Jessie and Sprog. Thick, grey, heavy, belching smoke that rises above the trees like a funeral pyre and makes his gut clench in sudden dread and fear. Interceptor turns her head and nips at him as his hands spasm harshly in her mane with the foreboding; he loosens his grip a little and flattens himself over her neck moaning softly._

_The house, the barn, every little outbuilding, everything is down to charred timbers and embers by the time they return. Max flings himself from Interceptor’s saddle, and circles around to where the entrance to the hidden cellar should be, screaming Jessie’s name, screaming Sprog’s name. The walls and floor and roof have already collapsed and burned away, leaving a pile of ashes and red embers there, around the gaping maw of a hole that leads down into a darkened pit. He is about to push his way into it, damn the consequences, when Interceptor’s harsh whinny seizes his attention for a moment._

_She is pawing at something in the center of the open courtyard where they had landed. Pawing at it and dancing in place and snorting and trying to get his attention. Max is torn; He calls for Jessie, down into the hole, but no one answers. Interceptor rears up on her hind legs, something in her teeth, shaking it like a terrier would shake a rag._

_A long shred of blue fabric._

_Max staggers to Interceptor’s side and takes the scrap. There’s a splash of red along one ragged edge. He knows this fabric. It’s from Jessie’s dress. The one she’d been wearing when he’d left her hours before. The ground is littered with shreds of blue and with white from the shift she wore under the blue linen._

_A bright flicker of white catches his eye from the post at the gate to the road. The swaddling Jessie had kept Sprog in is tied to the post like a banner… but there is something else there._

_//don’t. wake up. wakeup. **wakeupwakeupwakeup** //_

_Something… something else staked to the post. Max stumbles as he trudges toward it, his stomach a leaden ball of fear, already terribly certain of what he will find there. His legs give out as he circles around to the front, and his eyes take in the sight of his son’s broken, bloodied body, held in place with a pair of thin daggers._

 

“Wakey wakey, bloodbags!”

Max almost screws everything up right that moment. Between the disorientation of coming out of _that_ dream, and the visceral reaction to the Organic’s voice, the flare of instinctive rage and despair is enough to shatter the last of the enchantment on the shackles on his hands. He’s disoriented enough that, for one dark moment, he almost casts them off.

But reality reasserts itself as he hears cage bottoms dropping further down the room and he forces himself to be calm. The leg chains still hold him. The fucking _muzzle_ still holds him. He can’t do anything until those enchantments give way, and even then, he’ll need to wait for the right moment. 

He growls softly to himself, lets his anger fill his soul, force out the pain from the dream, tries hard not to think of his Sprog, of the way the little body-

NO!

Max clenches his fists and eyes and teeth and braces himself hard against the sides of his cage, forces himself to breathe, makes himself think about the Organic, about that fucking Redcap, reaching for the latch on his cage, waits for the inevitable jab to his back that will make him fall out and down. Makes himself concentrate on the way it makes his ankles ache as his whole weight drops roughly against them. Pointedly _doesn’t_ spare a look to see how far the enchantments on those bindings have eroded away yet, as the War _Pup_ , the child, clambers up to the stone ledge below him, with the skins of salted broth and milk. Pointedly _doesn’t_ think about how young these children, these Pups, are, as he doesn’t fight or resist the little hands; Max honestly doesn’t want to find out what creative other ways the Organic would find to feed him – or not – if he damages one of the pups. 

This one, today, at least, isn’t managing to half drown him, for once, but he’s so hungry for actual meat that Max is almost starting to contemplate taking part of the fucking Redcap’s leg with him when he finally escapes this place. 

He’ll settle for one of those goat dog things. Or at least a lizard.

 

_The smoking ruins of the house and barn had been empty. He’d stayed until he could make it into the cellars to check for certain, although he’d already known that Jessie wouldn’t be there. Formality only, but he’d needed to know, before he’d taken Interceptor back out onto the road to follow their trail._

_Sprog, he’d swaddled in the scraps of Jessie’s dress that he’d gathered from the ground, then bound his son’s body to his chest with the white cloth he’d torn from the post. His family would be together, no matter what. They’d left before the sun had reached halfway through the sky, Max feeding Interceptor the last handful of carefully hoarded enchanted rations, to give her the strength of a full day’s rest and feed._

_They’d found Toecutter and his band by nightfall. And Jessie. Or… what had been left of her, by then. Her body had yet lived… but his Jessie, his beautiful lady, his beloved wife…_

_He’d remembered taking the heavy crossbow bolt to his knee. He’d remembered when Interceptor took an arrow to her flank. He’d remembered drawing his sword, the blade igniting with his will. He’d remembered when Toecutter had finally slit Jessie’s throat. After that…_

_Darkness._

_Until he’d awoken with the dawn, cradling Jessie’s lifeless body, Interceptor standing guard over him, with nearly a dozen bodies scattered through the clearing and surrounding trees._

_He’d carried them, Jessie and his son, to a quiet spot, deeper in the forest, and dug them a grave where they could be together, undisturbed, beneath the spreading boughs of a wide, old oak, whose dryad welcomed him with a tear-filled gaze. He’d left a single stone to mark them, nothing more; there would be time enough for a better tribute when his work was done._

_Then, he’d returned to the bodies, and piled them up, and set them alight, and waited and watched until every bit of their loathsome presence had been reduced to ash and dead cinders._

_//stop there. it’s enough.//_

_And then… He’d gone hunting._

_Days had become weeks. Weeks had become months. One by one, the last of Toecutter’s band had fallen to his hands. One by one by one, as Max had tracked and traced each one down through towns and wilds. One by one by one, as each one had grown just a little bit more desperate, a little bit more paranoid than the last._

_Until tonight. Tonight, it ends._

_//it won’t.//_

_Tonight, there is only Toecutter, himself, left._

_Max isn’t smiling. The rictus that twists his features cannot be called anything like a smile, as he finishes tightening the thick shackle around Toecutter’s ankle. The other end of the shackle is a heavy, shipwrights chain, run four times around the center beam of this old Smith’s house, before being locked tight with a gaol’s padlock. Max takes the keys and throws them out the door into the yard, far out of reach._

_//it’s too late. you’re already damned… but don’t do this///_

_He walks over to a keg in the corner of the room, kicks it over, watches as the oil spills across the floor. Walks across to the other side of the room to another keg, does it again. Finally walks back to Toecutter and crouches down, knife in hand, staring at him for a long moment, before cutting the thug’s hands free of the ropes that had been binding him until that moment. Max steps back out of the range of any swinging fists or errant kicks as Toecutter scrabbles the gag out of his mouth._

_“Lunatic! Fucking insane! You’re-”_

_“Shut. Up.” Max kicks something across the floor toward Toecutter then squats by the door with a striker and flint, and casually lights a candle. “Saw’s brand new. Good teeth on it. Might get through that padlock in… ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. Might get through that chain in…. An hour. Might get through that beam in fifteen minutes.”_

_Max looks up at Toecutter, his grey eyes like storm clouds, almost lit from within with madness._

_“Might get through your leg in five minutes. Depends on how motivated you are.”_

_He stands, looks up at the ceiling. “Smith’s house. Slate, not thatch. Shouldn’t burn too fast. Got time.” Looks back down at Toecutter. “If you’re motivated.” He kicks the candle over into the oil. It takes the oil a moment to actually catch. “Oops.”_

_Max backs out the door, shuts it, bars it, and, for good measure, moves the extra rick of straw he’d had waiting, to stack against it. Just like all the other ricks of straw he’s stacked against every other open space of every wall of the little house. Nice thing about Smithies: they tend not to have any other houses or trees around. No fire danger to anyone or anything else._

_Interceptor stands patiently waiting for him in the yard as the first big flames begin to lick up the walls toward the roof, and smoke begins to seep out from under the eves. She snorts, paws at the ground once at the scream that echoes from inside, and then trotts off before launching into the air._

 

It’s the middle of a busy day when the spell on the shackles on Max’s ankles finally fizzles out with a little hiss. He’s hanging from his cage, which the Organic has thankfully not noticed anything amiss with, quietly draining into yet another War Boy, when he feels the almost anticlimactic loss of that enchantment. It’s a little like suddenly realizing that the socks that had been soaked all the way through are suddenly dry, without realizing when that had actually happened.

That just leaves the muzzle. He doesn’t have to wait to escape for that, though. The muzzle isn’t actually chained to anything. If the quiet moment comes, he can make a break for it, and just ditch the muzzle when it finally gives out.

And with what had happened to the bloodbag at the end of the other row? That quiet moment better come sooner, rather than later. Max doesn’t trust the Organic Alchemist to not get a wild idea to let the War Boys go ahead and “have some fun” at his expense no matter _how_ supposedly “valuable” he is. Besides, he needs to make a break for it sooner, rather than later, because every moment he delays, is another moment the Organic, or someone else, might actually fucking notice that the spells that are supposed to be containing him, have fizzled out. Max is just lucky that none of these War Boys are Gifted, and that the Organic apparently doesn’t have Sight. Every day that he’s still down here is another chance that someone with half a functioning brain might actually poke their nose in and notice something.

Not to mention, he _really_ wants to kill that fucking Organic Alchemist. Max just hopes that his “quiet moment” affords him the opportunity to do both.

 

_**“Sir Max Rockatansky, stand forth.”** _

_Max steps forward from the shadows into the light of the Tribunal Hall, his helmet held under his arm at a precise angle, his surcoat scrupulously clean, his armor carefully polished, his spurs, chiming upon the marble of the floor as he stops and stands at a perfect parade rest in the center. He stares straight ahead, not looking up at the Tribunal Knights, nor beyond at the shadowy Presence that looms overhead. He is not certain why he has been Called here today, but he suspects. It will not matter. His life is nothing, means nothing, without his wife and child any longer._

_“You stand accused of being Forsworn.”_

_Max jerks his head up in shock. No. NO! Murder, yes, he’ll admit to that, but Forsworn? NEVER!_

_“By WHO?!”_

_**”BY ME.”** _

_Max shivers as the Presence shifts forward, its voice rolling through the room like the echo of thunder through a canyon, like the tone of a bell from a tower, like the rush of wind across a plain, like all of these things, and like none of them, all at once._

_“..how?” Max asks weakly. To be accused by another Knight is one thing… but to be accused by the Drakes… He does not know how this will play out now. He’d been prepared to be stripped of his Knighthood, to be cast out, and though he would miss Interceptor sorely, he had been prepared to retreat to the woods and his wife’s and son’s grave and live his short few years left there._

_But to be Forsworn… Max is frightened. He doesn’t know how he could be, but the Drakes… are the Source._

_**”TOECUTTER.”** _

_Max frowns, confused. How would… He shakes his head. “That was justice!”_

_**”WAS IT?”** _

_“Yes!”_

_**”THEN WHY DID YOU NOT SEEK THE HELP OF YOUR BRETHREN?”** _

_“Because it my MINE!”_

_**”YOUR WHAT?”** _

_“My justice to seek!”_

_**”YOUR WHAT?”** _

_“MY JUSTICE!”_

_**”OR YOUR VENGEANCE?”** _

_“And if it WAS?!”_

_**”DID YOU ‘MAINTAIN RIGHT’, MAGEKNIGHT?”** _

_Max opens his mouth to shout, to scream, to ask, what THAT had to do with ANY of it--_

_He feels the answer like a punch to his chest._

_Did he "maintain right" when he tortured Toecutter? Or any of the others? Did he not ask the Others for help, not because it was his "justice" to seek, but because he was afraid that they would not help him finish what he started? Because they would urge him to bring Toecutter and his men to Gaol, not to Death? Was their very Purpose not but to help bring Order back to this world, before it slid into the depths of chaos? Into the madness rising? His helmet falls from his hands as he stares dumbly, straight ahead, the clatter of it deafening in the silence ringing through his skull. He is… he is. He is exactly as he is accused. He is exactly that which he is supposed to fight against. He has become it._

_**”YOU ARE FORSWORN.”** _

_Max falls to one knee, head bowed low. He nods, understanding at last. He is Forsworn. And, perhaps, he will be on his way to Jessie and Sprog far sooner than he’d planned. Despite the shock and the gravity of the situation, there is a part of him that cannot help but to feel relieved at the prospect. He won't have to endure; the Drakes will see to it. And then... then he can be Whole again._

_**”NO. YOUR PATH LIES ANOTHER WAY.”** _

_Max doesn’t dare look up, cannot seem to find the strength to do much more than breathe, as he awaits his fate._

_**”YOU ARE FORSWORN. YOU FAILED TO MAINTAIN RIGHT, NOT ONCE, BUT MANY TIMES ON THIS PATH YOU SOUGHT. YOU ARE CAST OUT. YOU ARE NO LONGER A MAGEKNIGHT OF THIS ORDER. YOUR ARMOR, YOUR MOUNT, AND YOUR SWORD. THESE ARE SYMBOLS OF THE ORDER OF WHICH YOU ONCE BELONGED. THOSE WHO ARE CAST OUT, WHO ARE NOT FORSWORN, WOULD HAVE THEM STRIPPED. BUT YOU, WHO ARE FORSWORN, SHALL NOT BE STRIPPED OF THEM.”** _

_Max jerks his gaze up at that, surprised. The Knights of the Tribunal seem surprised, as well, for they begin to murmur among themselves, when they had been utterly silent up until now._

_**”THESE THINGS YOU WILL KEEP, SO THAT ALL WHO SEE THEM WILL KNOW YOU FOR WHAT YOU ONCE WERE. BUT SO THAT THEY KNOW YOU FOR WHAT YOU NOW ARE, YOUR ARMOR AND YOUR BLADE WILL FOREVER BE TARNISHED, NEVER TO HOLD A COLOR OR A SHINE. NOR WILL YOUR BLADE EVER AGAIN ANSWER TO YOUR HAND. YOUR POWERS ARE FORFEIT. NEVER AGAIN MAY YOU TOUCH UPON THE MAGIC OF THIS WORLD, NOR IT, UPON YOU. YOU ARE CURSED, UNTIL THE DAY YOU SHALL FIND REDEMPTION.”** _

_A cold wind sweeps down from the shadows behind the Tribunal Knights, swirling about Max, and for the space of ten breaths, he is at the center of a frigid whirlwind. When it passes, his armor is the blotchy, patchy patina of iridescent blues and blacks and smokey greys of disuse and poor upkeep, the plume atop his helmet is ratty and broken. His surcoat is intact, but faded and worn, and his spurs are broken._

_**”WHEN YOU HAVE BEEN JUDGED BY THE DRAKES TO BE WORTHY ONCE MORE, MAY YOUR PENANCE BE LIFTED. NO KNIGHT OF THIS ORDER MAY LIFT A HAND TO HINDER OR HELP YOU. FROM THIS DAY FORTH, YOU NO LONGER EXIST TO THEM, UNTIL YOUR CURSE BE LIFTED. FAREWELL, FORSWORN.”** _

_Behind him, the great doors swing open with a rush of wind, and everything within is plunged into shadows again, leaving Max kneeling in darkness as the sense of the great Presence… just vanishes._

_It would only be a few years later that all the Drakes of the world would finally give up on Mankind altogether, and flee the world, taking their Powers – and any hope of earning their forgiveness and his Redemption – with them into the Void._


	6. The Green and the Fruit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moment that he's been waiting for has arrived. But what, exactly, is with the giant Tree?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some technical rigging stuff in the firs part of this chapter about hooking up and rigging out a heavy 8-hitch wagon. I'll have some notes at the end to explain the specialty terms. If anyone reading this is an actual Teamster, I apologize for anything I screw up. I Ride. I don't Drive. I tried to get the best info I could from the internet, but there's only so much you can do with no practical experience. Mea culpa.

“Time for the final shakedown, Imperator?” the lift guardian asks as Furiosa clucks to her mules, urging them into the careful side step that will bring the War Rig up to its last turn before they back it onto the platform.

“Indeed. Prepared ahead, armed ahead,” she replies, watching carefully as the wheel pair mince step to get the tongue straightened out, while the swing mules lengthen their sidestep to match the lead pair as they pull forward until she gives the reins a quick slap to send them all forward a few steps. Then a tug and a long pull to stop them and then back them all up, until the heavy, transport wagon is backed carefully onto the lift platform. A soft word, and they all stop, and stand patiently as she hops down from where she had been standing on the wagon tongue. 

No one comes to help her with the reins or traces, or even pet one of the mules. Everyone knows better than to try to lay so much as a single finger upon any of the midnight black draft mules with the eyes of literal fire, _or_ any of their tack while they are in it. Bred by the Sidhe themselves, and raised from foalhood by Furiosa, every one of them, they will tolerate no one's hands upon them but hers. More than one War Boy has not lived to regret his decision to answer a dare from his fellows, or try to corner the Imperator in one of their stalls. 

Only Furiosa’s second, Ace, has ever won enough grudging respect from her to have ever been granted permission to handle their reins, and only for a few moments at a time, now and then, as necessity dictated. Periodically, one or two of the beasts will even deign to let him scratch their ears, though they eye him with evil intent first. Always a gamble, even for him, and Furiosa is said to actually _like_ her Ace. Insofar as she likes _any_ man, that is, since she was cast down by the Immortan from his cherished bower in the Vault.

Now, however, she carefully drapes the reins over the rumps of the wheel mules, Whirl and Wren, and crawls down the wagon tongue to work loose the lynch pin that hooks wagon to Mule pole. It’s a heavy, thick thing of Cold Iron to keep any of the fey creatures from playing tricks. But once it finally comes loose, she clucks the mules up a few steps, and disengages them from the War Rig, and then walks them off the edge of the platform. Once they are clear, she gives the lift guardian a wave, and shuffles out under the left wheel mule’s belly to watch as the War Rig is slowly lowered to the ground.

So much effort, just to get their wagons and mounts and draft creatures down. She sighs. If the Immortan were any sort of _real_ “Sorcerer Incarnate”, he should have been able to make some sort of impenetrable ramp, or, better yet, an impenetrable gate on the ground, so that all the stables and teamsters could have just stayed _on the ground_ in the first place.

This isn’t about security. This is just vanity. And Joe’s pitiful attempt to keep everyone else from knowing that he still can’t cast but more than a handful of spells out of that book of his. Furiosa knows the truth. Unlike most of his “wives”, she’d arrived with more than a child’s knowledge of magic already. She’d smelled the truth of it on him, Seen the truth of it in him, before he’d been able to try and cow her with his flashy stage magic tricks and chicanery. 

Furiosa strides up to her lead mules, Lilly and Rail, and takes them by their bridles, carefully walking them in a wide circle until they are now waiting at the edge of the hole where the lift platform will be when it rises back up. On her right, Rail reaches up to nibble at her closely shorn hair, before blowing out a long sigh. Furiosa reaches back absently to scratch the jenny mule’s chin as she watches down below, a team of four heavy ponies trying to heave the loaded War Rig off the lift platform. It takes several long minutes of War Boys and ponies heaving and pushing to get the laden wagon moved. 

That’s the other reason that Furiosa likes to take the loaded wagon out for a quick shakedown run the night before the actual run; to get the wagon positioned on the lift correctly for all of the Immortan’s bloody spectacle for the next day, so he doesn’t have to suffer through all this fumbling around.

The shakedowns originally started, however, because once, many years back, on the day of the run, but a bare ten minutes down the road, the front axle had cracked. She’d inspected everything twice over before they’d left that day, as she’d always done, and the axle had looked and felt sound, but the bloody thing had cracked when they’d hit the rough road. So now, the night before every trade run, she takes a quick, thirty, sixty minute run down the road, around the field, in sight of the Citadel, just to shake down any problems. It’s saved her and her crew many a headache over the years. And many a War Boy.

But tomorrow morning, the War Rig will be backed onto the platform the right way, so that it will lower down perfectly, just right for Furiosa to back her mules up to and hitch on, without needing to have the ponies down there to laboriously turn it around, because there’s no space above to do that. And then, they will listen to the Immortan make his bloviating blessing and then send them on their way with water and milk and gold and food for the Crystal Mines and the Gunpowder Farm.

The lift platform arrives and locks into place with a loud, echoing slam. The mules, long used to it, barely even flick their long ears at the noise. Furiosa gives the guardian a nod as she takes Lilly and Rail’s bridles and leads the whole hitch of eight mules onto the lift. She makes a quick circuit to ensure that everyone’s hooves are all securely on the platform, that all their tack is on, nothing dangling, nothing caught, nothing stuck, and then gives the operator a circular swing of her right, arm, the flesh and blood one.

The left one, the mechanical one, made of silver and steel and leather and copper wire, she fists back into Lilly and Rail’s reins and she fits herself back between them. The platform gives a little jerk, and then begins smoothly lowering all of them to the desert floor below. By the time they get there, the ponies have almost gotten the War Rig turned around.   
Furiosa waits for the platform to bump to a halt before waving the ponies off from bothering any longer. The mules all step out eagerly behind her as she leads them back over to their hitch, then backs them into place. The lynch pin slams back into place between tree and tongue, and all the mules give just a little hop forward, feeling the weight of the wagon settle against their pulling collars. Furiosa gentles them with a soft, “Whoa,” as she gathers the bundles of reins up from where she had carefully draped them over Whirl and Wren’s rumps. Reins are draped up onto her seat in the carriage box, and she walks all around the wagon, checking it, checking every axle, every wheel, every hatch, every latch. She checks the tongue, and every tree, and every single-tree and every double-tree of the hitch. She checks every bit of hardware where each tree connects to another, checks where the fifth wheel connects to the wagon body. Checks every armor panel and every blade, spike, and jagged point that protects the ironwood wagon. Then she climbs up inside and checks the lashing on every crate, every keg, every barrel, every basket.

And then… she sits down, in a corner out of sight, tucked between two barrels of Mother’s Milk that are bright with enchantments to prevent spoilage. She takes a deep breath. And she begins weaving her spell. The spell that she'd traded the flesh of her left arm for, more than a dozen years gone. The spell that she's held in reserve all this time, waiting for this moment, for this night, for this perfect chance.

A spell of Sleep. Not just any Sleep. A calm, inexorable, impossible to resist Sleep. A deep Sleep, without dreams to disturb the Sleeper. A Sleep that beckons to everyone within the Citadel. To everyone within the grounds of the Citadel. To all the Wretched without the Citadel. To everyone, and everything that _can_ sleep, within a league of where she sits right then, to Sleep. To calmly, carefully, set their burdens down, and safely settle into Sleep.

Everyone _except_ for Whirl, and Wren, and Slip, and Slough, and Rose, and Reese, and Lilly, and Rail, and Angharad, and Capable, and Toast, and the Dag, and Cheedo, and Miss Giddy and herself, Furiosa. Everyone except those fourteen, to Sleep, under the promise that no one thus Named in the spell, can draw blood upon anyone thus bound by the Sleep, else the spell will instantly shatter. To all within, to Sleep, until Furiosa banishes the spell, or until she passes without the boundaries set. To Sleep, to Sleep, to Sleep, to Sleep... to all but those Named.

Furiosa feels the strength she has been hoarding for this moment pouring out of her for several long minutes, until all at once, it stops. She feels like she’s just run the length and breadth of all three towers of the Citadel at a sprint, without stopping. But her breath will return to her quickly. She can’t afford to waste time.

She slips out of the wagon and glances around. Everyone around her is bedded down. The lift slaves, draped across their stations, the Wretched, curled around their banked fires, the ponies, knees locked, heads nearly touching the sand. Furiosa nods, and jogs to one of the ropes that are always down for the messenger squires, and scales it as quickly as she can, before heading swiftly for the Vault.

 

The Organic has been watching him off and on all day. Max doesn’t like it. It’s making him antsy. Making him nervous. He’s starting to wonder if maybe the Organic knows that the bindings aren’t holding him any longer, or something. Although, if that were the case, wouldn’t he have already called down whoever it had been that had set the spells in the first place? Had them reset them?

That makes it more likely that the fucking Redcap is Up To Something. Wants Something. And anything that a fucking _Redcap_ wants… Max isn’t going to like it one bit.

Especially as the day drags on, and no War Boy gets plopped under his cage. It gets later and later in the day, and the Organic keeps sending sly little glances his way, but never once comes over to drop him out of his cage to hook him up.

Maybe some of the War Boys who have gotten his blood already have started losing some of their own enchantments? Could that be it?

Max scowls as he catches the Organic flicking another look his way, this one accompanied with a little unsubtle licking of his lips. 

No. Probably not War Boys breaking for unknown reasons then. Feeling a lot more and more like something Max is going to want to Bite Something Very Badly for.

He may not be able to wait for that “quiet moment”, if that’s the case. And if he has to make a break for it in a "loud moment"? They won’t take him alive again. Max will make damn sure of that.

But just when his nerves are damn near to the point where he’s about to snap, to throw caution to the wind, and cut himself loose and just turn himself on the Organic, and damn the consequences, a strange thing begins to happen. Magic begins to filter in from everywhere. A pale, ethereal, _green_ magic, the likes of which, he hasn’t seen in… decades, maybe. Probably longer.

It’s soft, and quiet, soothing, and calm. Nothing like anything he ever would have imagined feeling in a place like this. It settles upon every person here, even trying to settle upon him, before simply drifting away like pollen in a breeze. The Bloodbags, well, there’s no resistance there, and it’s moments, perhaps, before their quiet snores are filling the room. 

The Organic nods, then shakes his head, sways, shakes his head again. He blinks, glances at Max, who watches him through narrowed eyes, then he carefully sets his tools down, and then lays himself down on one of the tables where he usually puts the War Boys he works on. A minute later, he’s snoring loudly. The Green settles over him like a heavy blanket, almost… almost holding him down.

Max watches warily for a couple more minutes, looks around him at the rest of the room. Everyone is asleep. Everyone.

Doesn’t get much more “quiet moment” than this.

The shackles on his wrists clatter to the bottom of the cage and he can’t help but groan softly as he rolls his shoulders for the first time in… days? He isn’t sure how long. It doesn’t take but a few seconds to flip the ankle restraints off, and then, he’s flicked the latch off the bottom of his cage. His arms burn a little with the strain as he carefully, quietly, lowers himself down, then drops to the Blood Shelf with a soft “thud”.

The Organic never stirs. Not even when Max pulls the pair of knives from the Redcap’s own belt and slashes the bastard’s throat from both sides at the same time. A little disappointing, that. Max would have liked to have seen the Organic _know_ his death was coming, but _Max_ knowing that the Organic is dead will have to be enough.

Now, though, now, he has to find Interceptor and get the hell out of this place before whatever this… this _green_ is, fades. He keeps the Organic’s knives with him, to deal with whoever he meets along the way.

Except… Except that the further Max goes, the more of the green he encounters, and the more that the green beckons him on. He could have sworn that this was the corridor that he’d gone down before that led him to the stables last time, but it’s leading him up, now. Not down.

And the further he goes, the more sleeping bodies he finds. Everyone, _Every. Single. Thing_. Person, dog, creature, everything, they’re all sleeping, all tucked under a blanket of _green_. He tries another corridor, follows it, tries to follow his nose, but there’s no manure smell to follow this time. He’s just blindly trying hallways, just trying anything, always listening, and everywhere he looks, it’s green. Just soft, gentle, green. Quiet green. Sleepy green. Resting green.

And then, more green, as he bursts out into a room with hanging gardens, and moist air. He’s suddenly very, very thirsty. Organic had never allowed them enough water, and his throat is so dry, now that he can feel what actual _moist_ air feels like against it. There’s the sound of water trickling ahead, through a round hallway protected by a door that must be at least a foot thick, although the door is standing ajar at that moment, letting the sound of the trickling water escape. 

And the sound of… women’s voices? And the Green. The Green is in there, too. 

Most importantly, though, water. He needs water. Worst case, he can take one of the women, and force them to show him where the stables are. He steps through the door, and into... _a wondertale._

 

The Wives are waiting for her when Furiosa makes it to the Vault. There are no guards on the door; it’s a foot thick, solid brass, and locks from the outside. This time of the night, there are no greenthumbs left to be working the hanging gardens, and so, there is no need to post any guards. There is no one who should be anywhere near here, but Joe, and on the night before a Trade Run, he always feasts with his Boys, spending the night in luxury and using it as an excuse to try and teach Rictus more about trading, while Corpus watches the younger man fumble his numbers.

They are waiting as she spins the lock open and then swings the door wide and rushes in to the wide open dome oasis. Glass soars high overhead, and the empty, open dome is filled here and there with plants to give it the illusion of being a green, peaceful little garden, with a soaking pool and little waterfall in the center near the entryway. Seems such a waste of space to have such a high, soaring dome, and nothing to fill it, not even any birds, but Joe always refused any ideas to change the space.

No matter any longer. 

“We saw the spell. It worked?” Angharad asks as the five women stand around in a circle on the far side of the room, near the steps that lead up to their individual little bed chambers. On that little balcony, Miss Giddy waits.

“It worked. Everyone seems to be asleep,” Furiosa replies. She pauses, looks up at Miss Giddy. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Giddy replies. “I won’t survive such a trip. And with this… I may be able to help you a little.” She lifts up a crossbow, armed and ready to fire.

Furiosa nods, then turns to level a steely look on each of the other women. “Are _YOU_ sure. You’re leaving your skins. I don’t know if he can do anything with them to try and bring us back with them, but even if he can’t, you know that it means you will never Shift again.”

Angharad barks out a sharp laugh. “You know as well as I that he’s no kind of _real_ magician, Furiosa. He doesn’t have the ability, or the power to use them to do _anything_ to us once we leave.”

“And I,” Cheedo says quietly, “I’d rather live one day as a free mortal human, than a dozen years here, dancing in my feathers only when _he_ says I can.”

“Too right!” the Dag exclaims sharply. “Fuck that schlanger.”

“I’m not changing my mind. Not now. Not tomorrow. Two legs suck, but two out there is better than four here,” Toast says, turning to spit in the general direction of the Immortan’s chambers high above them.

Capable nods quickly. “If I need to run that fast again, I’ll steal a horse.”

Furiosa sweeps one last look at them all, then takes a deep breath. “Okay. I--” She stops turning toward the corridor that leads out to the hanging garden. Had that been…

There it is again. The sound of a footstep on the stones. It can’t be! She'd felt the spell working! She'd _seen_ everyone she’d passed Sleeping! No one should be awake! The only ones who could _possibly_ have thrown off the effects of the spell… would be the most powerful in the Citadel…

And, “no real magician” or not, Immortan Joe _is_ the most powerful magic worker within the walls! No no no no no. This can’t be happening! Furiosa throws her metal hand up behind her, trying to wave the girls to go find hiding places, as she pulls a dagger free with her flesh hand. If Joe is awake, then it won’t matter if she spills blood and breaks the spell; all is already lost.

But it isn’t Immortan Joe who strides through the door to doom them all. It’s a raggedy man in a patchwork shirt, unkempt, short brown hair, a _muzzle_ , and the Organic Alchemist’s very distinctive knives, _covered in fresh blood_ clutched in his hands, that creeps in cautiously.

He looks more than a little dazed as he stands there in the doorway, first staring wide-eyed up into the open air of the dome, then glancing over toward Furiosa and the Wives, then back into the open, empty space of the dome, then down to the pool of water, then back to the open dome again. He shakes his head, licks his lips, and turns toward Furiosa and the Wives. He blinks a little stupidly, but wags a finger at Giddy without even looking at her and grunts, “Down,” when she had started to slowly tip the crossbow up toward him.

“Put it down Giddy,” Furiosa says softly.

He points a finger at her, too, flicking it toward the ground as he jerks his chin toward her. Furiosa drops her dagger to the floor, and then kicks it away when he flicks his finger at her again. He seems to relax just a little then, enough to tilt another look back up to the dome. No, not the dome, to… to the open air? But then he steps forward to the little soaking pool and kneels, keeping his eyes on the six of them, and ducks his head to take great sucking gulps of water, slurping up as much as he can get between breaths. It’s when the hem of his shirt hikes up from the way he is crouched, and she catches a glimpse of part of the tattoo, that Furiosa suddenly realizes who, or rather _what_ , he is.

A bloodbag. 

“How did you get up here?”

The Organic’s bloody knife is still clutched in his fist, blade lying against his forearm, as he waves a hand at her and keeps drinking for another few moments. When he rises, he tries to wipe his face on his arm, but is frustrated by the muzzle, and scowls, grumbling.

“Hey!”

He turns toward her sharply then, pointing the other knife at her with a low growl, the kind a dog that’s backed into a corner would give, right before it bites. Furiosa shifts, squaring up, arms spreading to shield the girls behind her, wondering just what the hell has happened to the plan, and how she can even hope to salvage it, when the growl… stops. The scowl fades, and a look of confusion seems to enter his expression-- what of it that she can see around the bars of the muzzle. 

He tilts his head to the side, brow furrowed as he looks at her for a long moment.

“Green.” 

“What?”

“Y-you made the, um…” he licks his lips, flicks a look toward the others, back to her, “the green. The… the sleep.”

Bloodbags are normal mortals. They never waste anyone Gifted in the Blood Shed. So… how does he know that? Even to her Sight, he looks like any other normal human.

“We’re leaving. We won’t let you stop us,” Angharad suddenly declares from behind her. 

He blinks. “Why… would I?” He loses a little more of the wary crouch, rolls back off the balls of his feet as he tilts his head back the other way. “Want out too.”

“Did you kill the Organic?” Furiosa asks, nodding toward the bloody knives.

That seems to bring a smile to his face. “Oh yeah.” 

Furiosa scowls. She really has no way of knowing if he’s broken the spell, then. He’s shed blood, but _he wasn’t named_. Does it matter? “When? When did you kill him? I need to know.”

“What does it matter?” He demands in a low rumble. “The green came. Let myself out." He shrugs, then motions with the blade across his throat. "Killed the fucking Redcap." He pauses there to point at her. "Followed the green. Found you. And that,” he explains in short, choppy little bits, finishing with a jerk of one hand toward the open air of the dome that he’s been flicking odd glances to the whole time.

“Found… what?” Capable asks.

“The, uh... tree?”

“What tree?” Toast demands, trying to push past Furiosa’s arm.

“That. Tree?” he replies, as if Toast were a particularly slow pupil in a redundant class, as he waves his hand toward the very empty, very tree-less open dome.

The Dag snorts and throws up her hands. “Your spell didn’t work on him, clearly, because he’s fucking insane.”

“The giant, fucking, glowing golden tree of fucking light?” he snarls suddenly, all feral fury and cornered dog bite back in his posture and voice. “With all the pelts and, uh, skins on it? That tree?” He jabs one of the Organic’s knives up towards the dome above. The spell on the muzzle suddenly flares and fizzes out, and he gives a cry of triumph. “Finally!” Both knives drop to the ground as he reaches around to rip the muzzle free, before flinging it off into the furthest corner of the room.

“Wait... what did you just say?” Furiosa says softly.

He turns back to them, having been distracted by scrubbing at his face with his hands. “Finally?” Then he remembers that he's supposed to be snarling at them, so he scowls, but it's perfunctory, at best.

“No. About the tree. And the skins.” She’s staring at him intently. They all are, he realizes quite suddenly. Not _quite_ like how the Organic had been right before the Green, but like he is suddenly interesting. He shuffles back a step, glad that the muzzle is gone now, in case he needs to Bite Something. He doesn't like it when people look at him like he is Interesting.

He flicks a look back up to the massive tree, it’s branches spreading over the entire open dome, glittering golden and filled with it’s own inner light. He’s never seen its like anywhere before, and over the branches are draped fur skins, pelts, feathered cloaks of every color and shape he can imagine. Each one is anchored with a glowing cord. Most of them, the cords are dimmer and thinner…

But there are bright, thick, heavy cords that stretch from each of these six women to the branches of the tree. Perhaps to something up _in_ the tree? There’s so many skins up there, he can’t really tell.

He swallows, takes a step back closer, and points again, starts at the roots, sketches the shape of the massive tree, and the way the branches spread to fill the entire dome, the way the crown of the tree brushes the glass high above. 

“Tree. Fills the, uh… space. There’s… There’s skins." He glances up, licks his lips, looks back to the women again. "In the branches. With cords. They go to, umm... all-all of you.”

“That bastard hid them here,” Furiosa breathes, feeling her heart doing flip flops in her chest. Behind her, the girls are clutching one another, and she can hear Cheedo’s breath hitching, on the verge of tears.

“They’ve been here the whole time,” Angharad whispers, turning her gaze upwards toward where he had sketched the shape in the air, though she cannot see anything, still.

“Here,” he says, making a beckoning gesture toward Angharad with one hand. “Come here.”

Furiosa tries to hold her back for a moment, but Angharad shakes her head and pushes past, then walks up and stands before him. It’s only then, that he sees that she is very, very pregnant, her belly quite round and full. There’s a long, awful moment when he almost hears Sprog’s voice, gurgling in his ear, when the memories almost threaten to drag him under, before she reaches out her hand to touch the back of his hand gently with her fingertips. 

“Hey. Are you okay?” she asks softly. 

His gaze snaps back to her face with the suddenness of a slap and he sucks in a sharp gasp of air. He nods once, hard then looks away from her seeking expression to find that Cord, burying the moment in a task, in action, in motion, in anything to put some distance between himself and it.

The Cord is easy to find. It comes right from her heart, rises sharply from her, into the high branches of the tree. 

Furiosa watches as he seems to reach above Angharad, as if grasping onto a rope, but even to her Sight, there is nothing there that she can See. It’s still just… empty. He grasps that spot with both hands, though, and pulls, hard. 

And then, suddenly, in his outstretched arms, is the full, thick folds of a heavy pelt of a pale golden spirit bear. He turns, and offers it to Angharad who stares at him, dumbstruck, her hands pressed to her mouth.

And then Furiosa is grabbing Cheedo by the arm and pushing her forward as Angharad gathers the fur into her arms and cradles it close, tears running down her face. She has not seen her skin for more than a year. Perhaps two years, by now.

Again, he stands before Cheedo, stares at her for a moment, and then reaches above her, as if grabbing at a rope with both hands. A hard pull, and his arms are full of a fall of Heron feathers. Cheedo has seen her feathers more recently, but only because she has come to the Vault more recently than Angharad’s pregnancy. Still, the joy of having her feathers back in her hands is enough to bring tears of joy to her face as well.

Furiosa urges Dag up next, who quickly is cradling her Swan skin, and then Toast who gets her Wolf pelt, and then finally Capable, whose Fox skin is called down from the tree with the same rope-pulling motion. But then, he motions to _her_. 

She hadn’t even dared hope. Had believed Joe when he’d told her that since she was no longer worthy of being his Wife, that she no longer had need of her Skin, and so he’d banished it. She’d always assumed that, like the Milking Mothers, her Skin was gone, destroyed, forever.

He waves at her again, a little more impatiently, and she reluctantly comes, watches him tilt his head as he studies her for a moment, before reaching above her. She doesn’t feel anything as he seems to grasp onto a rope, as he had for the girls. She still doesn’t See anything, as he wraps his other hand around whatever it it. She still feels nothing, when he gives a heavy pull.

But then his arms are full of heavy seal skin, the silver fur dappled with black speckles, shimmering in the light of the Vault as he turns to her and lays it gently into her hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reins - the long straps of leather that the person who is driving the wagon holds to control the mules/horses  
> Wagon Tongue - the long piece of wood that just out from the wagon in front  
> Mule Pole - the long stick of wood that hooks to the wagon tongue that goes between each side by side pair of mules. the poles connect up the trees.  
> Single Tree - at the back of each mule, the harness connects to a piece of wood called a singletree. That distributes the load evenly for the mule.  
> Doubletree - Each singletree connects at its center point to the end of another tree, and that tree is called the doubletree. That allows two mules to pull side by side. The center point of the doubletree will be connected to to Pole.  
> Fifth Wheel - where the tongue connects to the wagon. It is a pivot point, allowing the wagon to turn sharp corners.
> 
> The positions of the mules in a hitch: the ones closes to the wagon are the "wheel" animals, and the ones out in front furthest away are the "lead" animals, and the ones between are the "swing" animals.


	7. Interceptor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All is not quite as it seems, and Max finally gets back to the stables. Where... all is not quite as it seems. Again.

“It isn’t working, Furiosa. Why isn’t it working?”

Furiosa looks up slowly, a bit dazed from running her fingers over the sleek, short fur of the skin she hasn’t seen in over a dozen years, the skin she’d thought destroyed, the _life_ she’d thought destroyed, toward Toast. “What?”

“Mine isn’t either,” Angharad agrees breathlessly, pulling her bear skin from her shoulder to shake it out, then flinging it back over her shoulders with an air of desperation. She closes her eyes as she pulls the fur around herself tightly, expression pinching as tears leak down her face.

“What’s wrong? What’s! Wrong!” Dag demands, shaking her swan’s skin like an old rug before she, too, jerks her skin around her shoulders angrily. “Why isn’t it _working_!”

Cheedo is hunched in on herself, trembling, her heron’s skin pulled tight around herself, panting quick, shallow breaths, as she shakes her head back and forth, silently crying.

Capable stands, stone-faced, staring at her fox fur, clutching it tightly in her fist.

Furiosa takes this all in for a moment, before looking back to the bloodbag. She steps back, and then swings her seal skin around her shoulders and reaches out with her Selkie magic to call her seal form to her, to Shift-- But nothing happens. She can See the power resting in her Skin, in all of their Skins. But she cannot touch it.

For that first instant, it feels as if the entire weight of the Citadel itself has crashed into her soul, settling upon her with a crushing weight of disappointment. To have been this close, all this time. To have come even _closer_ now. To literally _have her skin in hand_ now, and still not be whole yet.

Hatred _burns_ in her veins. 

“It doesn’t matter.”

That’s Capable’s voice speaking softly. Everyone turns to her with varying looks of astonishment. Everyone but the bloodbag, who just looks wary now, and a little tired.

“No, really, it doesn’t. We have them back.”

Furiosa blinks, considering this for a long moment. “No...” she replies slowly as she turns the thought over and over in her head. “No, Capable is right. It doesn’t matter. There were mages in my clan. Whatever _he_ did, they can undo it when we get there. They’ll have _time_ to undo it once we are _there_ because we will have these _with us_. So we can’t Shift now.” She pauses, turns a serious look on each of them, before draping her skin over her prosthetic arm. “Ten minutes ago, we thought we would never see these again at all.”

Furiosa turns to the bloodbag. “Thank you. We have no way to repay you for what you’ve done for us.” She reaches out, to offer him her hand, but he steps back, nervously avoiding her, avoiding all of them, and so she pulls her hand back, and absently strokes her seal skin with her fingertips.

“Stables,” he grunts.

“What?”

“Need to get to the, mmm… to the stables,” he replies, flicking his attention from her hand, to her face, back up to the tree that still only he can see, sweeping back across the Wives, before coming back to her face. His gaze never stops moving, she notes, always watching, sweeping, like a nervous raptor, or a dog that’s used to being beaten. “My mount. Need t’get to her.”

Furiosa frowns. “I can take you to the stables… but there’s no way down but the lift.” She Owes this man. What he has done for her has created an Obligation that just guiding him to the stables will not be enough to balance… but she cannot, _will_ not risk the entire plan on escaping just to try to make things right with him. “The lift won’t work while the slaves are under my sleep spell, and I won’t break that until everyone is in place.” She shakes her head, resolve firm, but suddenly regretting not waiting to tell him that until she’d gotten the Wives in the War Rig. He could still turn on them, and with the terms of the Sleep, she won’t even be able to really defend any of them. “I’m sorry.”

Instead of snarling at her like she expects, he actually seems to smirk, just a tiny bit at that. “S’okay. She c’n get herself down.”

Furiosa eyes him warily, wondering if the Dag is more right than she had realized about the relative sanity of the unpredictable bloodbag, but decides not to count her blessings. “This way then.” She pauses at the entry to the Vault, turning to give Giddy one last farewell look. 

The old History Woman nods, and stoops to retrieve her crossbow. “Good luck to you all.”

Furiosa nods, watches as the feral bloodbag snatches up the Organic’s bloodied blades again, and follows after the last of the Wives, although he pauses right at the end of the corridor to look up at where he had said the tree was, staring at it for a long, long moment. When he finally turns to follow them through past the heavy Vault door, he’s frowning thoughtfully, and running that considering gaze over their skins as she secures the thick door once again. He hesitates there, as she starts to lead everyone off, looking back at the door, but then shakes his head, and follows behind Toast with a final scowl.

It doesn’t take long to reach the level of the Stables, especially since that's near where she had been going to be taking them all anyway – the lift is right there, with the War Rig and her mules still waiting patiently down below. But the stables are big enough that finding this bloodbag’s mount could take a little while.

“What are we looking for?” she asks him.

He just holds up a hand as he pushes past her into the main open area that all the aisles branch off from. He straightens up, and for the first time, she really gets a feel for just what a large man he actually is. Thickly muscled, with a warrior’s build, only a finger's width shorter than her and much heavier… A well honed weapon, at total odds with his patchwork, homespun shirt and leather breeches that have been mended a few times too many, and a curious metal brace on his left leg. He stands there, head tilted up, like a wolf, scenting for prey, eyes half closed, as if this odd mortal man expects that he is somehow going to _intuit_ where “his mount” is going to be…

Except he suddenly turns sharply to his left and strides off down the far corridor at an almost jog. By the time she's just about caught up to him, he begins jogging, and then starts to lope until he gets halfway down the row of wide loose boxes where he abruptly skids to a halt in front of one with a heavy chain and lock on it, that has been layered with heavy magics to keep out errant War Boys. She’s barely slowed to stop next to the door as he’s grasping the bars of the stall front to look within, when he utters a strangled moan and shoves her out of the way, dropping the knives in his hands and trying to wrench the stall door open. 

Furiosa can’t tell, at first, what animal is inside, so bound down with chains it is. Just that it is black, and has an equine head. It takes her a few precious moments to parse out the folded limbs and the bulk of the folded _wings_ under the net of chain and mesh to understand that she is looking at a pegasus lying within the stall. 

She’s never seen a pegasus in real life before, only in drawings and paintings.

The bloodbag is still wrenching at the door, hands trying to rip the chains free, and she can almost feel the rage flowing off of him in a physical wave. Behind her, she can hear the Wives approaching as a slow jog, and waves urgently for them to stay back, to not get too close.

“You have to stop. You won’t be able to break that.”

“Watch me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

All he knows is red rage. Interceptor is more chain than flesh within that stall and every bit of it glows sulfurous yellow with incantations of entrapment and other spells, and Max is just pure, animalistic instinct of escape/fury/destroy at the sight of it. Behind him, the woman, “Furiosa”, is trying to calm him down, but he wants none of it. He just wants to break this whole place into rubble and blood and pain.

But he knows that this kind of fury can be useful to him sometimes. This kind of pain can be honed into a weapon. He turns every bit of it against the lock holding the chains on Interceptor’s stall closed, and wraps his fingers around the hasp, and _pulls_. And he _hates_. And he pours every bit of his awareness of his Curse and his rage and his despair and everything he has endured since that morning above the powdery plains into the enchanted metal in his hands…And.

He.

_Pulls_.

But it doesn’t break. 

It doesn’t even creak. Doesn’t warp or twist or bend. Nothing. It holds strong in direct mockery of his curse. 

“I’ll look for a key,” Furiosa offers. She backs away carefully, and he doesn’t even care when she pushes the other women behind her. 

Max slams his hands against the bars of the top half of the stall, his breath starting to come in short sharp gasps again. He’s not leaving her here. He doesn’t care what it takes. He’ll kick out the boards on the bottom half of the stall and drag her out by hand, if he has to, but he isn’t leaving Interceptor here.

He paces back and forth in front of her stall once, twice, three times, then can’t stand it any longer; he leaps up and scales over the front, dropping down inside with her.

She’s lying down in the middle of the large loose box, legs tucked half under her, wings folded at her sides, though he doubts that she would be able to tolerate standing for any significant length of time with all the heavy steel chain they have on her. 

They’ve put a _bridle_ on her. A BRIDLE! He’s never asked her to wear a bridle! And, even though she is apparently “resting” here in this big loose box stall, there is still a bit on that bridle. She’s never had a bit forced into her mouth in all her life until now. Max would kill them all for that injustice alone. But there are also chains at her neck. High up on her neck, a thin loop of chain, like a choke chain, that hooks to the bit on the bridle, and he has no idea what that could even be for. 

And they’ve put _shoes_ on her. Heavy steel shoes, nailed to her hooves. He’s never shod her; she’s never needed it. He’s always kept her trimmed and cared for so that her hooves never needed shod. But now heavy steel shoes weigh her feet down with thick iron nails.

But worst of all, there is a heavy net made of steel chain, a mesh woven of tightly interlocking links, that covers her wings, almost like a blanket made of steel, that he can see if fastened by chain straps that loop over her chest and between her front legs, probably to more chains that go under her belly. He can see at least one lock, which means that there’s probably more. And the net blanket is very heavily enchanted. He can’t tell what it is supposed to do, but there are feathers scattered all over her stall. Dozens upon dozens of feathers. 

He drops his knees before her, hands working over her, pushing and lifting away the green of Furiosa’s Sleep spell, shoving his hands between her and the green, peeling it back from her and carefully rousing Interceptor from the unnatural slumber. By the time Furiosa and the other women return, Interceptor is groggy, but awake, and he’s managed to get her to shift enough so that he’s found all of the locks to the chains on her. He’s still trembling with suppressed anger, though Interceptor tries to nuzzle him gently, despite her weariness.

“How did you--”

“Keys. Now.”

There’s silence behind him. He turns his head to look up at her and notes the way the other women, the ones all dressed in white, all huddle behind her in a tight knot, and the way Furiosa’s jaw has clenched tight. He stands up and crosses to the stall door, staring at her, eye to eye through the metal bars.

“Keys.” It isn’t a command. It isn’t a question, either. But he can feel his stomach clenching already.

“I can’t get to them.”

“Then I need an axe.”

Furiosa glances over at the wooden part of the stall and shakes her head. “Don’t be a fool. You’ll kill her.”

“Not. Asking.”

“You. Will. Kill. Her.” Furiosa enunciates very carefully. “The spells on those bindings will kill her if she leaves here without having them removed. If I get you an axe, and you cut this whole stall down and drag her out of here on her knees, she. Will. Die. Is that what you want?”

Red and black begin to filter in to his sight, slowly filling in from the edges, consuming his entire field of vision with every word she speaks. Consuming _him_ from the inside out. He can’t hold this all within. He needs these women to leave now. To leave him and Interceptor to their fates, because he can’t hold this all within and survive, and if he’s going to die, he will grant Interceptor a merciful end, too. They need to leave. They need to leave now, before... He needs--

A soft, warm nose gently nudges the back of his knee and rests there. He freezes, his breath just stuttering in his lungs as everything just… stops in that moment.

He turns and collapses against Interceptor, gathering her head against his chest as he tries to remember how to breathe again.

“She’s too valuable to keep locked up,” Furiosa says softly. “They’ll eventually get someone to ride her out in the field on a raid or a trade mission or something. Survive today, and take her back out there, when all of these chains have been removed. Be a fool out there where you can do it smarter. Not in here, where you’ll both die.”

“...need a knife.”

“Fool! Give her a chance!”

Max shakes his head and holds out his hand behind him. He turns to look when, after a long pause, he hears Furiosa’s metal arm scrape against the bars of the stall, to see her holding out one of the Organic’s knives that he’d dropped. He shakes his head.

“Need one not Tainted.”

Furiosa frowns, but withdraws her arm and drops that knife then offers him another, pulled from her own belt this time, a wicked little thing, barely a few inches long. He nods his thanks and takes it, turning back to Interceptor and resting his head against hers for a long, long minute. Then he takes the wicked little blade, steadies himself, draws back, looks deep into her impossibly blue eyes...

And cuts a quick, short slash across his left palm, and then another across his right palm, before setting the knife aside. 

He ignores the startled gasps of Furiosa and the other women behind him as he runs his bloodied palms across the choke chain at Interceptor’s throat, concentrating fiercely on his anger and his Curse as his blood coats the steel links. As he runs his hands along the links of the bridle and the bit, he thinks long and hard about the words of the Drake that day so very long ago, when he was declared Forsworn, and his Curse was laid upon him. As he carefully runs his palms over each and every heavy steel shoe, squeezing drops of blood into every iron nail hole, he concentrates very hard about how he has not earned his redemption, and how magic repudiates him. And, for good measure, he cups every lock between his palms, and thinks very hard about the rage that fills him and how very much he wishes to tear this entire Citadel down until there is not two stones left to rub together, no matter who should get in his way.

Then he takes the knife again, and carefully reaches up, and cuts two tiny nicks at the outside base of each of Interceptor’s warm, furry ears, and he makes sure that his palms are still bleeding freely, before he cups his hands tightly over those nicks and leans his head against hers again.

“...blood to blood,” he murmurs softly. “When the bindings break… choose freedom this time. ...don’t come find me.” He closes his eyes, sees fire and blood and darkness. Feels an aching cold fill his chest; the winter this world hasn’t seen in… decades… settling into a hard ball of ice where his heart used to be. “Not this time.”

As he pulls away from her, he snatches up Furiosa’s knife, pauses, and grabs a few of the scattered feathers in his other hand, then rises swiftly to his feet. He can’t allow himself to hesitate. If he does, he’ll just stay here, and never leave. This… this is the best chance she’ll have. This is the best chance he can give her. His Curse, to forever be untouched by magic… His blood is him and he is his blood. Less potent when it’s left his body, but it still works. Just slower. 

Then she’ll be free. Free of him, too, if she's smart. It's the best thing he can do for her. It's what he should have done all those years ago.

He needs to leave. While he can still make himself. He shoves Furiosa’s knife back through the bars of the stall to her. As soon as she takes it, he scales the stall and drops down outside, striding off back the way they came without looking back. Not even once.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Slow down, fool,” Furiosa huffs in annoyance as she rushes to catch up to him, a small tin of healing ointment in her hands.

Behind her, the Wives jog to catch up, still all giving each other bewildered looks about what this absolute madman had just done. Knives and blood and everything. Little wonder he’d first appeared in a muzzle!

“Hey, here,” Furiosa says, reaching out to grasp him by the shoulder, to stop him for a moment. Surprisingly, he does stop, turning to look at her, then the ointment she’s scooping onto her fingers as she reaches for the hand not full of feathers.

“Don’t waste it,” he growls. “Won’t work.”

She ignores him with a frustrated sigh and slathers it on, anyway. Of course it will work. Healing ointment always works on simple things like this. It’s not like it’s a mortal gut wound or anything. “Don’t be stupid. We don’t need you leaving a blood trai-” She breaks off, staring at his hand that is stubbornly refusing to knit itself back together the way it should be doing, then up into his face. Stormy grey eyes seem to spark against hers, though he isn’t pulling away from her. He’s just watching her, less a skittish, abused dog, now, and more a cautious wolf.

“What _are_ you, fool?”

He doesn’t answer, nor does he look away. She finally closes the tin and stuffs it in a pocket, before accepting the roll of bandages she’d fetched and asked Capable to hold while he’d been slashing his hands up and painting the chains in the stall with his own blood for whatever reasons he’d had. She doesn’t look away from his eyes as she wraps his hand; she’s been an Imperator for many years now, and this feral wastelander will no more cow her than Imperator Prime or Immortan Joe will.

“You won’t get far on foot. I have an 8-hitch with a war wagon fully loaded with an entire trade run worth of supplies.” She ties off the bandage and taps his other hand. His brow furrows the tiniest bit as his eyes narrow, but he swaps the feathers into the now bandaged hand and lets her take his second hand to bandage, all without either of them breaking eye contact. “That’s what I’m taking them away in. You look strong. Look like you know your way around a fight. Come with us. At least for a little while.”

He eyes her warily as she finishes tying off the second bandage.

She shrugs, stuffs the rest of the bandage material into the same pocket as the ointment, and then runs her flesh hand over the seal skin draped over her shoulder. “Look, we still owe you. And, besides, you’ve already screwed up the original plan some. I don’t want you out there, a wild card, completely fucking it up before we get far enough away. It’s not all altruism, if that makes you feel any better.”

That… actually seems to work; he snorts, finally looking down at his hands. After a long moment, he huffs out an exasperated exhale, and nods, starting to turn his head as if to look back down the aisle toward where he’d left his pegasus, before sharply shaking his head and gesturing for her to lead the way.

“Good. Because I think we may have to end up leaving tonight instead of in the morning like originally planned,” she replies as she turns to lead everyone toward the lift. “Which means you get to take the place of ten outriders and at least a half dozen War Boys.” 

She glances over her shoulder in time to catch him shaking his head as he sighs, “Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	8. Heading Up, Heading Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to leave the Citadel behind.

She can hear the Wives murmuring to each other as she leads them swiftly back to the lift. They need to be on the move, and quickly; this has already taken far too long, and every deviation from the original plan puts everything even more at risk.

“What do you mean that we might have to leave tonight, Furiosa?” Angharad finally asks, as they arrive to the lift area.

Furiosa turns, waits for them all to gather around, before nodding toward the feral. “I don't suppose you thought to hide the Organic's body or clean up the blood, did you?” She isn't surprised when he shakes his head. “I mean _that_. With the Organic dead, there's a chance someone will find him before we leave in the morning, and that's going to stir up a whole lot of attention, and risk the War Rig getting searched.”

She turns a searching look upon each of them. “I'll put it to each of you, because there is a chance that no one will find him before we leave tomorrow morning. But you have to know, that it's a _small_ chance. If he gets noticed, there's going to be a search. I could try to keep them from searching the War Rig... but I can't guarantee it.”

“So... what happens of we do leave tonight?” Toast asks.

“First, no escort. That's both good, and bad. It means, fewer War Boys I have to eliminate once we get to the Rock Biter's Pass. And they won't realize that this isn't just my usual shakedown run until we're halfway through Buzzard territory, if they even see us then, so we'll have a pretty big lead on them. But it also means that we have no backup to help while we're running through Buzzard territory. On the other hand, we're making the run through the Buzzards at night, so they're less likely to even come for us.”

The feral snorts at this, shaking his head as he crosses his arms.

“I said _less_ likely, not _not_ likely. That means it's going to be mostly up to you and I,” Furiosa explains.

“I can shoot a crossbow,” Toast objects.

“Good. Then you can help. But those are basically our choices right now. Stick to the plan and risk getting searched, or make our run for it now, and only have ourselves to rely on,” Furiosa explains.

“We also have to wonder if Joe won't be able to tell that he managed to get our skins back for us,” Angharad adds, nodding toward the feral. “Once he wakes up, I mean. And then come looking for us anyway.”

“He won't,” the wastelander growls with another shake of his head.

Furiosa frowns and looks over at the feral at this. “How do you know?”

He snorts and jerks his head at Cheedo's Heron skin, clutched in the young girl's arms. “Sorcery. Bad sorcery. He can't feel shit.” He frowns then, as if he regrets saying anything.

“Good... point...” Furiosa agrees slowly. “What's your name, anyway?” she asks, although she'd really prefer to be asking him what he _was_ , to know the things that he's known, to have done the things that he's been able to do. But she figures just getting a name will be a start.

Or.... not? He just eyes her warily and says nothing.

“Unless you'd rather I just keep calling you fool?”

That just earns her a gruff shrug.

“Fool it is, then,” she sighs. She hopes that he fights better than he talks, or else this escape is going to go down in flames. “So?” she asks, sweeping an impatient look at the girls.

“None of us wants to risk getting caught again,” Angharad says, the other four nodding in agreement. “If there's a search, it would probably happen while the wagon is back up here, rather than while you have it down there. We can't risk that.”

“Leave tonight,” Dag declares, jaw clenched as she nods. “Take our chances with the Buzzards and the bastards.”

“Your mules are fast, anyway, right Furiosa?” Cheedo asks. 

“And, like you said,” Capable adds, “they're less likely to bother. Might all be sleeping.”

Toast just nods.

“All right then. We keep moving. Let's go,” Furiosa says, as she leads them over to the rope down. “Can you climb down?”

Five blank looks meet her own. 

“Climb... that?”

“Looks.... kinda far.”

“Is there another way?”

The Fool sighs and stalks away as the five Wives look over the edge at the ground below, returning a minute later with a length of rope and one of the hooks they use to clip onto buckets or kegs to drop them down below. He taps Angharad on the shoulder and waits for her to turn toward him, before motioning for her to raise her arms up away from her sides. When she does, he leans down, and then starts winding the rope in his hands around her waist and between her legs in a brisk manner that has Furiosa almost diving to smack him away from her, before she suddenly realizes what he's doing -

He's making a harness for Angharad to sit in.

Then he takes the hook over to the rope hanging down below, looping it into the rope as high up as he can reach it, and then pulling the rest of the rope all the way up to the platform with them. There's another hook at the end of the rope; that one, he hooks onto the harness he's tied onto Angharad, before running the rope he's brought up through the hook he put on the rope up high. He leads Angharad to the edge, takes all the tension out of the rope between Angharad and the hook, and then places Angharad's hands on the tight part of the rope. Then he takes the other end of the rope, runs it behind his back, and _leans_ back, lifting her off her feet. She swings out over the ground off the platform with a little gasp, and he begins slowly letting the rope slide through his hands, lowering her to the ground.

Furiosa blinks. Apparently the Fool can be pretty useful after all.

Once Angharad is down, Furiosa has Fool let the rope down so that she can slide down and help get the harness off. Then he pulls it all up and ties it onto Cheedo next, then Dag, then Toast, then Capable, before he removes the hook he'd added to the rope, and climbs down himself, bringing hook and harness rope with him. 

She's halfway through he check of the wagon by the time he joins her, running hands over the axles, checking the wheels, stepping back to eye the wagon itself and finding the handholds and archer's nest on the back. “Under here,” she motions, ducking under the high belly, motioning toward him with a wave of her hand. He stoops to join her so that she can show him how to get to the hidden access into the hold. They stand, looking into the bounty contained within, barrels of water and mother's milk, crates of vegetables and greens, skins full of spirits, and bags of fruits. As she's turning to explain that there's a hatch at the front of the wagon that opens into the carriage box, she notes the awed expression and the way he licks his lips. 

Of course. He's been a bloodbag. He probably hasn't seen _real_ food in... well, at least however long it's been since he's been a bloodbag, and goddess only knows how long it's been since before that.

“Take what you want, now,” she offers quietly. “Just make sure to secure everything before you leave here. And there, in the front, there's a hatch between the hold and the carriage box where the Wives are settling in.”

He looks at her warily, as if he's not certain that he can entirely trust her offer.

“Go on,” she orders, waving her hand. “The greens, there, are especially good for replacing blood. I could give you this entire wagonload, and it wouldn't be enough to repay this,” she says, stroking her hand over her seal skin. She sighs and shakes her head. “There's a crossbow mounted at each end, and a longbow straight above us here. Quarter keg of quarrels in each corner, quiver of arrows strapped to the bow. Long knives every arms length mounted to the walls in here. I'll show you where everything is in the driver's box when you get up there. There's more in the archer's nests.” 

With that, she gives him a nod, and leaves him to go finish her last round of checks. When next she sees him, he has one of the satchels that some of the fruit had been packed in slung over one shoulder. There's a bunch of greens peeking out of the top of it, and it's bulging with something heavy, but not as much as she'd expected. He's got an apple in his mouth as he scales the side of the wagon along the back toward the Archer's nest, and a crossbow slung over his back, and a long knife on his belt. He glances down at her as he finds the gunpowder tipped lances stored along the top of the wagon and holds one up with the quirk of an eyebrow. 

“Thundersticks. You know how to use those?”

The apple is down to it's core now, which he bites in half and chews meditatively through as he nods. 

“Good. Don't blow my War Rig up.”

He snorts and carefully returns the lance as he pops the rest of the apple core in his mouth.

By the time he finally joins her in the driver's box – by flipping himself down in a slow, controlled roll over the roof onto the bench beside her – she's got the girls settled into the bench along the back wall. None of them want to use the backward facing bench behind the driver's box, which is fine with Furiosa; that gives her more places to store weapons and supplies, like her longbow and quivers and her sword and her brace of knives. Fool seems to be contentedly munching his way through a turnip now, as she points out the crossbow bolted to the ceiling of the driver's box above them. It's got an enchantment on it to assist with accuracy, which is why she never bothers using it, because she finds that enchantments tend to muck her up more than help her, but he may want it. He turns in his seat, though, toward Toast.

“You shoot?” he grunts around a mouthful of turnip greens.

“Ugh. Yes?”

He jerks his head toward the crossbow, then pretends not to hear her as she asks him to hand it to her, instead, fishes in the bag slung over his shoulder for a fistful of quarrels that he drops on the bench right behind him. Toast sighs, and then gets up to reach over the empty bench to get the weapon, frowning at Fool a little as he then fishes out a fist-sized, red potato.

“Um, you should really cook-” Capable begins to say.

Which he then begins to eat like an apple, as he settles another fistful of quarrels near his knee in a slot that looks made for that purpose.

“-Never mind.”

Furiosa snorts softly to herself, trying very hard not to be amused, but there's just this little part of her, this _mean_ little part of her that envies the softness of the girls who had never had to scrabble and fight and beg and worry about where their next meal might come from or where it might be safe enough to try and sleep like she had that is almost enjoying how Fool makes them uncomfortable with his wasteland mannerisms. She hates herself for feeling that, knowing exactly what hardships that these girls _have_ faced, but that mean little voice is still there in the back of her mind saying, “but didn't you face them, too?” And it shouldn't matter. It _shouldn't_! Because pain isn't like sacks of grain that can be measured on a scale like that. That two people experienced the same kinds of thing, doesn't mean that they have felt the same pains. That two people went through two different things, doesn't mean that their pains are different.

That she went through what they did, and then went through _more_ than they did, doesn't make their pain _less_ than hers. It _doesn't_. She has to believe that.

Except that she doesn't entirely believe that, because half of the reason that she wants to get them away from here is to spare them any possibility of having to go through even a fraction of what she's had to _after_. The other half is making Joe _hurt_ , of course, but if taking them away wouldn't hurt him, she'd still be taking them away. She just... doesn't want to fall into the trap of thinking herself... better than them, somehow, because of what she's gone through than them, because she surely isn't.

Absolutely nothing could be further from the truth. The lives she's ruined on her quest to get to this point... The blood on her hands... No, she earned every bit of her pain. _Deserves_ every bit of her pain.

But, as she turns to the Fool and finds that, as she points out all the weapons she has stashed within reach, and he's already spotted them, or intuited what or where they are, even though she comes from the same place as these white-wrapped women, that she already feels more kinship with this feral wasteland Fool than any of the wives that she's known for hundreds of days.

That frightens her a little, even as it comforts her in the same breath. She needs to stop thinking about it.

From a compartment under her seat, she brings out a pouch from which she withdraws eight biscuits that glow brightly to those with the Sight. They're special rations for her mules, that will allow them to run as fast as they can, for as long as they need, from dawn to dusk, or dusk to dawn. She has enough for ten days, though it's too dangerous to use them for more than two or three days without allowing them rest. It _can_ be done... but they may die of it, so she won't risk them. Not unless there is no other choice. 

She turns in her seat and gives everyone a long look. “This is it. Last chance to change your minds. Once I feed the mules, we're on a set course.”

“Then let's get going already,” Dag demands. The rest of the Wives nod and voice their agreement.

The Fool just takes another bite of his potato and chews placidly as he digs out a skin of distilled spirits and hangs it on a hook next to his seat, then digs another one out, and leans around her to hang it on a hook on the other side of the driver's box.

“Are you... planning on getting drunk, Fool?”

He pauses in the process of tucking a knife into his boot to look at her, then reaches into his bag to pull out an unlit candle, points it at the lantern hanging in the carriage box. “Most things, um... will duck a, uh, fireball to the face.”

“I told you he was insane,” Dag mutters.

Furiosa blinks. “Don't set my War Rig on fire, either.”

He shrugs. Pops the last bite of his potato into his mouth. Chews. Loudly.

Well, she muses to herself as she hops down from the driver's box, if they're all going to die, at least they will all die free. Because it just feels like this entire thing is rapidly becoming a farce that will end up with them all dead before they even make it to the Rock Biter's pass. And Goddess help them all if the Rock Biter's decide that coming this early has broken the deal.

By the time that she has fed each of the mules their biscuit, they've all begun to shiver and dance in place with the nervous energy of the enchantment laid upon them. The Fool has his crossbow out, loaded, and ready, as she climbs back up to her seat and settles in. He gives her a nod, before turning back to scan their surroundings when she checks with him as she gathers up the reins. 

The mules barely wait for the slap of the reins against their back before leaping into a trot, then speeding up into a canter.

No one looks back for a last look at the Citadel as they swiftly draw away.


	9. Buzzard's Roost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Furiosa and company flee the Citadel, they begin to cross the first of several bits of hostile territory. Time for their Fool to prove his worth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> deepest apologies for the delay in getting this chapter out. lambing season here on the farm, and that's put a dent in writing time, and then it's been tough getting back into the headspace of fighting. Hoping to get this back on track now. Wish me luck!

By the time that Furiosa has driven the War Rig far enough away that she can no longer control the Sleep that she had settled over the Citadel, the massive wagon and it's team of eight night-dark mules has already slipped beyond the horizon from all but the highest parts of the spires. Even now, though, the Sleep is but gradually beginning to lift, leaving behind a gentle lassitude in its wake, a sort of dull apathy about the tiredness of sleep-fogged limbs and nap-sludged minds that discourages those that are beginning to slowly drift towards wakefulness from even wondering why they had been sleeping in the first place. 

Or that there had been a War Rig parked down in the open area before the Lift platform, waiting to go out.

The Green lifts away, dissolving into motes that vanish into the darkness like the last traces of fog had once upon a time vanished in the sunlight as an afternoon would overtake a thick, lazy morning. Like those long ago days of water-rich mornings which are no more, the Green is also no more, leaving nothing behind for even a seasoned, Sensitive Adept Mage to find and track and trace... much less a fumbling impostor of an inSensitive Sorcerer.

Furiosa had long ago paid dearly for the crafting of that spell, and had been excruciatingly careful about detailing exactly what she had wished for it to do. That it had cost her only the flesh and blood and bone of a single arm had been a bargain, as far as she had ever been concerned, for now that she has finally had need to cast it for truth, it has done everything she had ever intended.

It's a War Boy coming to help Organic with a special project that sets everything on end, when he eventually arrives to find the Organic Alchemist lying in state on an exam table, throat slashed double, bled out, and the very feral's cage they had been meant to milk that night, open and empty. It's when he raises the alarm that everyone realizes that Furiosa has not yet returned from her normal shakedown run of the War Rig, and briefly, very briefly, there is concern that maybe, _somehow_ the raging feral had managed to impossibly steal aboard the War Rig and overpower their best and most vicious Imperator. Had the raging feral not slain the _Organic Alchemist_ , after all? Could such a thing as overpowering even _Imperator Furiosa_ , unthinkable as it is, be possible, then?

The Immortan, however, is as paranoid as he is covetous, and is unable to resist checking on his Wives, just as Furiosa had feared. Miss Giddy, unfortunately though, misses her shot when he charges into the Vault and finds the Wives missing. She refuses to tell him where Furiosa is taking them, even when he beats her sorely and then leaves her in a bloody heap in one of the little bedrooms. He doesn't even realize that the Wives' skins are missing as he locks Giddy within the Vault, bellowing that he is only leaving her alive so that his traitorous, ungrateful Wives will have the pleasure of _watching_ him execute her when he returns with them all.

He rousts the entire Citadel, every able bodied War Boy, every wagon with a functional team to pull it, every healthy steed that has a rider, and he sends up the signals to the Gunpowder Farm and to Crystal Mines for aid, with but one goal in mind:

_**“RETURN MY TREASURES TO ME!”** _

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The signal, when it comes from the Citadel somewhere around quarter 'till an hour later, barely crests the horizon from where they are. They're bright flowers of red and yellow light that blossom against the dark skin of the night, visible only because Furiosa had set Dag to watch for them once she had turned the War Rig east off the trade road.

“We got a longer head start than I expected,” Furiosa says over the sound of the wagon and the mule's hooves on the stone and sand of the wastes. “They'll have to send out the Hounds first to find our direction, but if we can keep this lead, we'll be in good time to the Rock Biter's Pass. Keep sharp, though. Buzzards should be noticing us soon.”

The Fool nods, his crossbow now tucked down on the seat beside Furiosa, and a nice, powerful little shortbow he'd found in the archer's perch above in hand. The moon is nearing full, with no clouds out, giving them good visibility, but also making them visible to everything around, and the flare of the fire of the Sidhe-bred mules' eyes also gives them away, little flickers of light where none should be. The low thunder of their hooves, interspersed with the occasional chime and spark of iron shoes against hard rock, and the rattle of chains against the ironwood sides of the heavy wagon echoes out across the otherwise quiet landscape.

They will not hear the Buzzards coming, when they come. Even without the noise of the wagon and the Mules, the Buzzards are preternaturally quiet in their wastes on their chosen mounts, for they do not ride horses or antelope or the curious twisted goat-dog things of the Citadel. The Buzzards have become so named for the massive birds creatures that they have tamed to their hand.

Their heads are as big as a man's torso, with a massive beak full of ripping teeth, and crowned with an array of horny spikes. Tall enough to pluck a man from the driver's box of even this tall wagon, or grab a man's foot from the archer's perch, without having to jump to do so. Too thick and heavy to fly, they've traded their wings for a set of foreshortened claws and spikes that they are only too happy to use to try and tear a man or a horse to pieces with. With half their body covered in scales and half in wiry, barb-less feathers, they're as much lizard as they are bird, but they're every bit big enough to carry a single man on their back, and every bit quick enough to pace even Furiosa's enhanced mules. And their foul temper is an equal match to the people who pair with them, who armor themselves in the spikes and teeth and claws of their dead birds until both look like nothing so much as a swiftly racing, screeching piles of hatred and sharp edges.

Some clans - like the Rock Biters - can be reasoned with, or bribed for safe passage or alliance. Not the Buzzards. They want little more than the chance to fight and rend and tear and feast, and it little matters to them if they begin their feast before the prey is all the way dead. The birds, in fact, seem to like it if their prey squirms a bit on the way down their impressive gullets, and the sharp tang of terror seems to season the taste of the meat to their liking.

But the birds do not see well in the darkness, and prefer to hunt by the bright desert sun. That will be their saving grace, if there is one to be had. They hunt best by sight, and not so well by scent, and are foul tempered and distrustful, fractious and often times hard to control, even by their seasoned handlers. It won't keep them all cooped up in their caves and hills, but it will help curb some of the horde from raining down upon them. Probably already has, in fact. They are still several hours from the Rock Biter's territory, though, which leaves plenty of time for the Buzzards to mount a raid upon them.

The Fool nudges Furiosa with a toe, urging her to stand and look back; she follows where he indicates with a jerk of his chin to see a far off flash of light beyond the horizon just as the last of it fades away, and then another, brighter, but much further north.

“Crystal Mines and Gunpowder Farm,” she explains, dropping back to her seat. She turns to look back at the girls. “He knows you're gone now. He wouldn't have called for them for anything less.”

At that, she flicks a grave look up at the Fool. He merely nods; the stakes have always been high. This just means that they'll have more targets to aim at now as far as he's concerned. But he swings his attention back out over the plains around them, watching for the dust kicked up by swiftly running feet, for the glint of moonlight on metal or eyeshine, for movement where no movement should be, and settles the weapons he's collected more firmly about himself.

The first attack, when it finally comes, is heralded by a spear that comes flying out of the darkness. Furiosa barely has time to spot the glint of moonlight against the spike, before he is sweeping his shortbow in front of them, knocking the spear aside, where it clatters into the footwell, instead of burying itself into the wood between them. She spots the Buzzard a split second before he does, is nodding toward the shadow looming up ahead of them, when she sees him draw back on the bow from the corner of her eye. The bow sings, and a second later, the Buzzard's massive bird shrieks in mortal agony, collapsing as they race by. He reaches down to snatch up the spear, passing it back to the girls for them to use to stick out the window at anything that gets to close, before he is up with another arrow nocked again. This time, he spots their next foe before she does, turning and loosing before she even registers the danger approaching from the side. The wagon barely rocks as the Buzzard crashes into it as it goes down in a tangle of spikes and feathers and blood.

Around them, the night erupts into the shrieks of hunting Buzzards. Cheedo screams in surprise and fright. Furiosa merely scans the terrain ahead for obstacles or traps before wrapping the reins around the holder at her seat and snatching up her crossbow. Beside her, the Fool shifts over to make room, letting her take one side, while he concentrates on the other, almost as if they had rehearsed it. Almost as if he'd been her Crew from the very beginning of time.

A Buzzard swings up out of the darkness, pacing her lead mules, the rider reaching over to try and grab the reins. Lilly, the lead mule he's reaching for, doesn't even break stride as she seizes the rider's hand in her strong teeth and rips him from the massive bird thing's back. She shakes him like a rag doll, and flings him right into his own mount's feet, tumbling both to the ground and then under the wagon's thick, heavy wheels. Beside her, the Fool rides out the jerk and bump of the wagon without even missing his shot. Furiosa doesn't miss her shot on an approaching Buzzard, either, their targets going down, almost as one.

From the rear, there is a loud scrape and thump as one of the Buzzards manages to leap from his bird's back to grab hold of the side of the wagon and pull himself up atop it. The Fool grunts, swings his bow over his shoulder, and grabs a chain bolted to the roofline near where he is standing. He swings his whole body out wide, using his momentum to kick a rider from another swiftly approaching pair, trusting Furiosa to shoot the bird before it can take a chunk out of one of her mules, before rolling himself up onto the roof of the wagon itself. She spares him no more thought as she turns her attention from the now crippled bird, to the next advancing Buzzard.

On the roof of the wagon, the Fool barely has a chance to roll to his feet before he is tackled and shoved back down again by the Buzzard, a knife in one hand, and a glove made of shed bird claws on the other. He lands hard, the bow across his back digging sharply into his shoulder blades as he deflects the claws with his forearm, and grabs the buzzard's knife hand wrist with his other hand. Bones crunch in the Buzzards wrist as he allows himself to finally release some of the simmering rage he's been stewing in for days, and the Buzzard begins to thrash wildly. He ends up taking a couple slashes to his forehead before he's able to fling the Buzzard from the top of the wagon, but he barely notices through the adrenaline singing through his veins.

Down below, Furiosa is calmly picking off Buzzards as they appear out of the wastes, one bird at a time. Her heavy crossbow easily takes out legs and knees and ankles, especially with the bright moon to illuminate her targets so nicely, and they are not as keen a shot as she is, though they've come close to hitting her a couple times. 

A riderless bird drifts back from where it had been harassing her mules, and takes a snap at her leg, but there's suddenly a sword flashing down from above, and the bird's head goes flying off in one direction, and its body in another. The Fool glances down at her from the roof of the driver's box, a trickle of blood dripping down past his ear. She nods and shoots the Buzzard about to make a snatch at his ankle right in the eye, watching with satisfaction as it and its rider tumble into the dust and take another pair with it. 

For a long moment, the only sound in the wastes is the pounding of hooves, the ring of steel on sand and stone, the rattle of chain on wood, and the fading of Buzzard shrieks falling away in the distance. She and the Fool both sweep their gazes across the sandy plains as far as they can see, not trusting the quiet, but nothing comes sliding up out of the darkness for a dozen counts of deep breaths. Furiosa finally drops back to her seat and gathers up the reins.

“There'll be more later. That's just one clan. Anyone hurt?” she asks, pitching her voice to the girls in the back.

“Don't think so. But I'll need more bolts soon,” Toast replies.

“There's more in the hold of the wagon. You can go through the hatch in the floor to get there. Quarrels will be up in the corners,” Furiosa explains, adding, “Bring up some apples, while you're down there.”

“You're... hungry?” Angharad asks, aghast. “After.... _that_?”

The Fool finally swings back down from the roof with a thump, pulling his short bow from his shoulder and setting it on the bench behind him, along with the still-bloody sword. 

“' _That_ ' was barely a skirmish,” Furiosa replies, shooting a look at the Fool, who meets her look, and then nods; they share the smallest knowing smirk with each other, before he returns to the task of cleaning the sword and checking his weapons. “Just wait until the Citadel forces start catching up. “

“I thought you said we had a head start on them,” Cheedo says, voice cracking a little with worry.

“We do. But Joe fields things faster than even my mules. Some of them _will_ catch up before we make it to the pass. And I don't know what the Gunpowder Farmer and the People Eater have in their arsenals for sure. I have to assume that they have similar,” Furiosa answers. “I have to assume that we're going to be facing some of them, no matter what. We can't just pretend that we're going to get away without fighting some of them. And stop bleeding on me Fool.”

He twitches and blinks down at her, then lifts a hand to his head when she jerks her chin in that direction. 

“How bad?” she asks.

He just shrugs and grabs the nearest skin full of spirits and squirts some on his head with a faint hiss. Dag scoots forward to offer a piece torn from her wrap for him to scrub at the blood dripping from his hair. 

“Lean this way, smeg, so I can see how bad it is,” she sighs, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. Surprisingly, he lets her, and doesn't put up any fight when she dabs at the thin slashes in his hairline as she checks them under the lamplight above them. “Not too deep. You'll live. Splash some more of Joe's rotgut on it to keep the infection out, though.” Dag says, shoving the scrap of bloodied fabric into his hand before releasing him. 

He nods and leans back over the side to do so, before pressing the fabric back over the slashes to staunch the fresh blood flow.

Toast returns then from her trip to the hold with an armload of crossbow quarrels and a bag full of apples, with some greens and other things tucked inside. 

“Hey Furiosa?” Capable calls, as Toast and Dag get themselves situated back into the cabin. “Do you think we'll be far enough away from Joe soon to try getting our belts off?”

“Maybe,” Furiosa replies, but, despite that, is shaking her head. “But we can't take the time to stop and try. I'm sorry. We'll need to wait until we can stop for a rest or to camp.”

All five of the young women groan, with Dag throwing in a hissed curse for good measure. The Fool quirks an eyebrow in silent query, but no one offers any further explanation. He doesn't bother pursuing it, though, because Toast chooses that moment to lean up and hand off the bag with the apples and greens. 

“Here, the apples you wanted Furiosa. And some more potatoes and stuff for you, Fool,” she adds with a smirk at him.

Furiosa glances at him sidelong to see how he handles the teasing. 

With a shrug as he grabs a turnip, apparently, which he begins eating greens first before climbing back up to stand on the seat beside Furiosa, shortbow once again in his other hand while he scans the wastes. She carefully weaves all the reins onto the specific spots made for them on her prosthetic hand, before fishing in the bag for an apple for herself. Best to take advantage of the brief reprieve while they have it. They'll be passing into another Buzzard clan's territory all too soon, and then it will be back to bird hunting again. 

At least her instincts really had been right about him when she'd first seen him balanced there on the balls of his feet in the doorway of the Vault, bloodied knives in his hands, and tensed for combat:

He's definitely reliable in a fight.


	10. Traitored, Tracked, Trounced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ace and the War Rig Crew are confronted, Nux and Slit talk strategy, and there's fighting on the Fury Road.

“Ace! Ace! You heard? I can't believe it! Have you _heard_ , Ace!?” Morsov yells as he skids into armory at a dead run, almost falling on his face as he struggles to catch himself on the nearest bench without upsetting the stack of thundersticks that Ace is teaching the younger pups to inspect.

“What are you _on_ about? Slow it down 'fore you get one of us killed, you blithering maggot!” Ace bellows, aiming a cuff to the War Boy's head, which Morsov ducks, but just barely.

“ACE! Listen!” Morsov demands, popping back to his feet and grabbing the elder by the shoulders. “Listen! They're saying she _traitored_ him!” he whispers urgently, leaning in close, trying to keep his words from carrying to the younger pups. “They're saying Furiosa traitored the _Immortan_!”

Ace starts to scowl, until the words penetrate. Then he freezes and just stares at Morsov hard.

“Keep at those lances, pups!” he barks at the youngsters. “Just like I showed you.” Ace shakes Morsov's hands off his shoulders and stalks out of the room, nodding sharply at him to follow. Once they're out of sight and earshot, he spins around and pins Morsov to the wall by his throat. “What fool smeg did you just say?”

“Not me, Ace!” Morsov chokes out, hands prying at the arm across his windpipe. “The Immortan! Says she traitored him! She ent back from her shakedown, and his Wives is missin'! He's callin' an all out muster to hunt her down, Ace!”

Suddenly, three more boys from the Crew come running in, the black grease only making their wide eyes look that much more shell-shocked. 

“Ace!”

“Have you--”

“What's--”

“Shut it!” Ace orders, stepping back from Morsov. “One at a time! Damnitall, Boss'd never...” He trails off, scowling, thinking hard, and coming up blank.

“Wha'd we do, Ace?” Morsov asks.

“Yeah, Ace. What will you do?” a new voice drawls from behind them all. 

They all turn to face Imperator Prime surrounded by a dozen of his burliest War Boys, some of them holding the rest of the War Rig crew between them.

“We'll serve the Immortan. What else would we do?” Ace replies calmly, squaring his shoulders against the Imperator.

“Like Furiosa did?” Prime sneers.

“I got no idea what the Boss's done, or why. She didn't tell none of us nothing,” Ace counters, shaking his head.

“Everyone knows that Furiosa's crew is tighter than a seized piston,” Prime replies. “So you really expect us to believe that none of you knew nothing about it.”

“Yeah, well, if that were true, an' we knew anything, wouldn't we be with her?”

Prime just glares for a long, long breath. “Well then, maybe you'd best just all 'serve the Immortan' right here at the Citadel, until we can be certain where your loyalties are. Be time to figure that all out once we've brought her back, I'd imagine,” he finally says.

“That's shit and you know it,” Ace growls, not about to roll over for anyone, not even Imperator Prime. “But it's not as if we'd have anything to ride, what with the War Rig missing.”

“Oh yeah, so you'd have us just scatter you all through all the other crews, would you,” Prime says. “Or give you your own wagon with fresh horses and a full set of lances, yeah? Put you right behind the Immortan, shouldn't we? No worries there, right?”

Ace steps forward, shaking off the hand Morsov tries to put on his arm to hold him back. “Quit dancin' about it, mate. Just say what you mean to say and be done with it. But use your fuckin' head. If we was in on it, why the fuck would we still be _here_? What fuckin' use is some pampered _breeder_ gonna do her when the lances start to fly? Yeah, we was her crew... so what fuckin' good would we do her _here_ if we knew a fuck damn about what the fuck she's doin'? Use your fuckin' head.”

Prime growls, not too pleased at the challenge Ace is throwing at him, but not really able to argue the logic. “Orders are orders,” he finally snarls, and jerks his head at the War Boys he's brought with him who promptly move to surround Ace, Morsov, and the other Boys. “You're staying here until we're back.”

Ace does not dignify that with an answer as he follows where Imperator Prime leads them to. He's said his piece. Anything further will only be taken as criticism of the Immortan, and not of Prime, even though he's certain the Immortan gave no such order and this entire farce originates with Prime. 

At least enough pups see them marched to the holding cells that Ace knows that they won't be conveniently “forgotten”. The pups will see to it that food and water, at least, will make it down to them until someone “remembers” that they're here and comes to deal with them. And probably be quite surprised at how alive and healthy they all still are by that point.

Or the pups will find a way to get them out, if it comes to that. And if it _does_ come to that... well, Ace is inclined to let them. Things have been running a bit down the shitter for a while. Furiosa traitoring Joe by stealing his Wives away... well... it wouldn't actually be that big of a surprise, except that she'd managed to get it all planned out and done without even so much of a hint of it dropping anywhere before now. Joe Damn the girl. Why couldn't she have trusted him, just a little?

Ace stands at the door to the cell, arms crossed over his chest, and glares at Imperator Prime as the lock is secured.

“Just until we get back and everything can get cleared up, you understand, Ace,” Prime explains. He doesn't even pretend to sound sincere.

“Of course.” Neither does Ace.

“Now what, Ace?” Morsov asks quietly, once Prime and his whole troop have left.

“Settle in and wait, for now, lads.”

“That... that's it?”

“Yeah,” Ace sighs, turning, lifting his goggles up to his forehead so that he can look them all in the eye. “Yeah, that's it. Settle in and wait. The pups will make sure we're fed and such. And as for the Boss...” He frowns, looks out the door and back down the corridor, roughly toward the outside before heaving a sigh. “You ever know the Boss to not try to take care of us?”

Quiet, thoughtful looks met him, before, one by one, each of them begin shaking their heads no.

“Right. So... If she really did do it... really did steal the Immortan's Wives, then the Boss left us behind for a reason-”

“Well, duh! None of _us_ would traitor the Immortan!” Gnash, one of the younger War Boys, bursts out.

Morsov smacks him across the back of the head, hard, with an open hand. “You really think the _Boss_ couldn't make it sound reasonable like? Really?”

“OW! Smeg!” Gnash hisses, rubbing his head. “But, but it's the Immortan! How could anyone make that sound reasonable?”

Ace sighs again, looks around, thinks hard. He turns and looks back down the corridor and then pushes his way through the crew to the back corner of their cell where he slides down the rough wall to sit. Morsov joins him, and everyone else takes their cues from him and circles around, sitting in a tight group.

“I can't say what the Boss is doing, or what she might be thinkin' or anything about what may or may not be goin' on. I don't know what's fact and what's just wild rumor right now,” Ace explains quietly, leaning forward so that all of them on the crew can hear him, but pitching his voice so that it won't carry beyond their circle. “But here's a couple somethings for you to think about:

“If she did do it... then she left us here so she wouldn't tangle us in it.” Better to think that, Ace thinks to himself, than to think that she wouldn't be able to trust any of them. To trust _him_. “If she really did steal the Wives away.”

He makes sure to meet every member of the Crew's eyes _hard_ , making sure that they really understand what he's saying. _Even if it means that the Boss traitored the Immortan, she still thought to take care of the Crew, to keep them as safe as she could before she left._ Might be bollocks, but... but he's got to pin his own hopes on that. He's got to pin the last few thousand days on that or else... or else there's just no point in even thinking about Crew versus Everyone Else any more.

He waits, one fist absently knuckling against his chest until each of the Boys nods in some level of understanding, before continuing.

“An' then this: we get a stallion in and put it to the mares, and every mare either throws a deformed foal, or dead foal, what's most likely to blame?”

“Stallion. Time to geld 'em or stew 'em,” Cog, one of the front archers, replies. Everyone else nods agreement.

“And if we get a dog breeds a dozen bitches, and every pup those bitches squeeze out is busted up broken, whose to blame?” Ace asks.

“Dog is,” Bonner, one of the rear lancers says. “Time for the stew for him.”

“Take a bolt and try to put a dozen nuts on it, and none of them fit right, all cross-thread... which piece is probably broken?” Ace continues.

“The bolt,” Morsov says, flipping his hand in circle to motion Ace to speed it along.

“And the same farrier shoes two dozen horses, and every horse lames up, what's to blame?”

“The farrier. We get it. Make your point, already.”

“So tell me this, lads,” Ace asks, “Immortan Joe has had literally dozens of Wives, and each Wife gets three tries 'fore she's cast out... but he's only ever had three sons, and every one of them's been broken...”

“So. Why's it always the Wives' faults?”

A half dozen identical blank looks meet his own quirked-brow gaze.

“Just think on it, lads. Just think on it.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Around them, wagons are forming up and animals jostle for position and dance with nervous energy as everyone awaits the Immortan's signal to move out. Beside him, Slit bounces in his saddle atop his Oryx and howls like a dog. Nux grins, grabs hold of one of his own Oryx's horns to balance him as he reaches over to punch Slit in his near shoulder with fierce joy.

Tonight will be his night. Tonight IS his night! He can _taste_ it! He can feel that raging feral's blood singing in his veins from... was it just a day ago? Two? Can feel it pulling him like a lodestone. _He_ isn't going to die soft, sitting on a shelf in the blood shed. He's going out historic on the Fury Road, as he takes Furiosa prisoner and restores the Immortan's treasures. 

Slit snarls and punches him back, his Oryx dancing in place and making his lances rattle in their sheathes on the back of his saddle. “How soon do you think the Hounds will get her trail?” Slit asks, eyes wide as the moon overhead.

“Soon. Soon. Gotta be soon,” Nux declares, nudging his Oryx to trot up closer to the front lines. He wants to be at the front when the order comes to set out. He doesn't want to have to be shouldering through everyone else to break through. The handful of other War Boys who ride Oryx are nudging their way toward the front, too.

Nothing in the Immortan's army is quicker than the Oryx... and Nux's Oryx is the quickest of them all. There will be _nothing_ stopping him from glory tonight! Not even Furiosa's notoriously loyal mules will be able to stop him from taking the War Rig, once he's aboard it. Slit can depend on his lances all he wants, but Nux knows that the key to it all is getting on the wagon, and he knows the best way to do it. 

Tonight, _everything_ will _finally_ be worth it. The Immortan will finally _see_ him, really see _him_ , Nux, and his place in Valhalla will be assured for all time. 

“FOR THE IMMORTAN!”

He and Slit leave everyone coughing on their dust when the order finally comes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sky ahead of them is growing light with the coming dawn, as Furiosa winds the reins around the holder at her place and takes up her crossbow for the fifth major wave of Buzzards. Toast has already started picking some off from the window in her door, her aim steadily improving over the night, while Dag, and Cheedo, and Capable have taken up collected spears to ward off any that get too close to any of the other windows.

Furiosa and the Fool have slipped into an easy partnership, with her covering the front and one side of the wagon, while he ranges up to the top and down the back as smoothly as if they'd rehearsed it a thousand times. 

They're getting tired, though, and it's getting close enough to dawn, or else this clan is just populated by crazy enough riders, that they have managed to roust out almost twice as many as most of the other attacks as before. That's why Furiosa is almost happy when he leans over the front of the roof and yells down, “War Boys, coming fast!” She nods as she's resetting her crossbow, letting him know that she's heard him, then goes back to sighting down on the next Buzzard. The War Boys won't want the Buzzards to take their prize, so they'll concentrate on taking out Buzzards, too. 

Reinforcements. Finally.

“How many?” she yells up to him as another Buzzard bird goes down to a heavy crossbow bolt to the knee.

He stands back up, turns to the rear and peers along their back trail for a moment, before turning back. “Five. Antelope, maybe.”

“Oryx,” she corrects, finally discarding her crossbow, now depleted of preloaded bolts, in favor of her longbow and quiver. “Be careful. They're more kamikrazi than normal. Can only assume that they're--” she looses an arrow that spears through the throat of the bird, before lodging in the head of the bird's rider. Both go down in a tangle that trips up another pair, but before she's even got another target in sight, one of the now riderless birds is up and coming for blood. “They're smart enough not to target the wagon with the Wives being on it.”

The Fool nods, noting which of the approaching Oryx have lances strapped to their saddles. He'll keep a closer eye on those. He stands then leans over to where Toast is leaning out of her window sighting on Buzzards. 

“Hey! Candle! Light it!”

He only waits to make sure she's heard him, before heading back down the roof of the wagon to kick off a Buzzard that had managed to make the jump from his bird to the side.

Inside, Toast snarls. “Light his candle? I'm BUSY!”

“I'll do it,” Angharad says, reaching to rest a soothing hand on Toast's shoulder. She's the only one without a weapon in her hand, after all, spending her time making sure that Toast doesn't run out of quarrels and just generally trying to stay out of the way of the spear butts being thrust out all the other windows.

She moves to the other bench, and leans over it to the driver's bench where the Fool had been sitting, grabbing the bag that he had been using, fishing inside for a candle. The first thing she pulls out, though, is a broken sword. Just the hilt of a sword, really, all tarnished black steel, and she only has a moment to barely notice the guard is something like wings with what might be a horses head at the end, when a Buzzard bird suddenly appears, snapping and snarling almost right in her face from the side of the wagon away from the side Furiosa is facing. She screams, Cheedo echoing her, and instinct has her flinging the broken sword right at the Buzzard's head, hitting it right in the eye, as Cheedo tries to stab it with her spear. It shrieks and trips, and the wagon shakes hard as it goes under the wheels.

It takes her a moment to catch her breath, Cheedo apologizing profusely.

“I didn't even see it coming, Angharad! I'm sorry! It was just there! I didn't--”

“It's okay. It's okay,” Angharad manages, pushing Cheedo back to her window as she finally manages to fish out one of the candles the Fool had asked for what seemed like an eternity ago, but had only been moments. “It's okay. Just... just keep your eyes open.” 

Her hand does not shake when she lifts the shade on the lantern to light the candle, and she has her breathing calmed again as she waits with it held tightly in her fist for the Fool to come and claim it from her.

Furiosa nods at Angharad as she turns to check their route, reaching down to tug on the reins for a moment to adjust their path. She turns back in time to see a cluster of three Buzzards suddenly erupt into a fireball as a War Boy lands a thunderstick in their midst with a gleeful shout. The mules, well used to these kinds of shenanigans, don't even bother to flick an ear back in their direction as they continue to thunder on toward the dawn.

The dawn... and the swiftly approaching end of their enhanced running. The moment the first rays of the sunlight strikes them, the spell woven into the biscuits Furiosa had fed them will end. They won't be helpless, but they will be at a much greater disadvantage.

This fight needs to be done by then, and judging by how quickly the sky is getting lighter, and how many Buzzards and now War Boys they're facing... they will be cutting it close.

“Don't let any of the War Boys grab you!” she cautions to the Wives. “Stay together! We can't afford to let anyone get separated!” She's answered by a chorus of agreement from the five young women.

The wagon suddenly shakes _hard_ as a thunderstick erupts far too close, scattering several Buzzards, but nearly making Furiosa lose her footing. She grabs hold of a set of chains to keep from pitching off the driver's bench as she bites off a curse, then scrambles up onto the seat to look down the roof line of the wagon, praying that the Fool hasn't been thrown off. Dread curdles in her gut as she scans and doesn't find him for too long of a moment. She has to stop looking long enough to sight down on a Buzzard who is edging too close, timing her shot for a moment when she can pin the bird's head to the rider's chest with one arrow. When she looks back, relief hits like a punch as the Fool scrambles up from his stomach where he'd been hidden right behind the front archer's nest.

Her relief, however, is very, very short lived, because he's on his feet for no more than a moment, before he goes over the side of the wagon with his shortbow tucked over one shoulder, a knife in one hand, and nothing in the other. 

“FOOL!”

He's lost to her sight before she can even get the word out.

There's... There's no time to be frozen. There's no time to mourn, even if she would have been inclined to. There's too many Buzzards to kill, and now, apparently one less fighter to--

Or... not.

There's an Oryx that's drawn up beside her side of the driver's bench, but that's no War Boy in the saddle. The _Fool_ is in the saddle, clutching a bloody knife. He waves to her, and hands off the War Boy's saddle bags full of weapons and supplies, before dropping back toward a pair of snapping, screeching, riderless Buzzard birds. She's got her bow up and the birds sighted before he's managed to turn in his saddle, and the fletchings of her arrows probably brush his shoulders as they pass on their way to the burying themselves deep in the skulls of the birds. He flicks a look at her, maybe almost a hint of a smirk, before kneeing the Oryx to cut a sharp turn behind the War Rig to head for the other side. Furiosa's expression probably matches his as she hops back down from the bench to tug on the reins to adjust their path again, before looking for another target.

They're falling, though. The Buzzards are falling. Between the Fool, and herself, and the last War Boy that she can see on her side, there are only a handful of Buzzards left. Her arms are on fire, muscles screaming with the ache of drawing her bow, but their foes are falling. She waits until the War Boy uses his last thunderstick to take out a pair of Buzzards, before taking down his Oryx with a careful shot to the antelope's head. That leaves only another couple Buzzards on her side.

She hears chains rattling differently behind her, and turns, arrow drawn, just in time to see the Fool step from the Oryx he'd commandeered right into the driver's box. She turns back as he snatches down the bag of spirit's he'd hung up much earlier in the night. By the time she turns back, the last two Buzzards on her side have vanished, allowing her to drop back down to her seat and gather up the reins again.

The Fool reaches back and takes the candle that Angharad has been carefully protecting, nods toward it and grunts, “Another.” And then he's sucking down a mouthful of the spirits, dropping the skin on his seat, grabbing a chain hanging from the side of the wagon, and swinging himself wide.

Angharad has the presence of mind to grab Cheedo by the back of her wrappings and yank her away from the window where she is harrying a War Boy with wide gashes slit up his cheeks on either side of his mouth. Toast is apparently out of quarrels, because her crossbow is down on the floor and she's using a spear, too, now, which the War Boy is completely ignoring. Angharad is reaching for her when the fireball erupts, right in the War Boy's face.

Toast screams. Cheedo Screams. Angharad Screams. The Oryx screams.

More importantly, the War Boy screams as the Oryx throws him and then runs off into the desert, leaving him behind.

“YOU FUCKING SMEG!” Toast shrieks. It's probably for the best that she _is_ , apparently, out of ammunition for her crossbow, because she snatches it up in a manner that suggests that she would very much like to plant a bolt right through the back of his head. “ _You could have warned us!_ ”

The Fool, however, is waving his hand furiously for another candle, as his has gone out. Angharad takes too long, though, and he spits the rest of the spirits out and scrambles for the roof of the wagon without waiting for her to get it lit and handed off to him.

The last two War Boys have boarded the War Rig and are waiting for him above. They stare at him for a long moment, shock writ large across their features.

“It's the feral bloodbag! Nux! It's the fucking feral bloodbag!”

The first finally charges at him full speed with a loud howl and a drawn knife leading the way. The Fool almost lets himself get distracted by the second one long enough to get tagged by that knife. Almost lets himself stare a moment too long at that second War Boy. Almost doesn't shake himself out of it just in time to drop into a leg sweep to catch the charging War Boy and pitch him right over the side to the rocky ground below. Almost takes the knife to his shoulder, rather than a glancing slash across his chin.

Almost.

Because that _second_ War Boy? The one who is standing there, carefully balanced, watching him with a wary, calculating look in his shockingly bright blue eyes?

That little bastard is _wearing his jacket_.

Shockingly bright blue eyes widen with surprise as the Bloodbag straightens from his crouch and advances with teeth bared and fists clenched and absolute _raging feral_ radiating from every pore. 

It doesn't help that Nux is staring almost straight into where the sun will be rising very, very shortly. But the Fool taking such a _personal_ interest in this fight? Is probably the very least helpful part of it. 

Nux ducks the first punch- right into the second punch. He gets a lucky hit in on the Bloodbag's side, but ends up taking a knee to his face for the trouble. Then a double fist chop to the back of his head that has him seeing stars as he hits the deck of the roof of the War Rig.

“That's _mine_!” the Bloodbag snarls as he rips the jacket from Nux's body. Nux barely manages to keep from getting kicked off the side.

“The _fuck_!” Nux coughs, crawling back, scrambling to get his feet back under him. “Fuckin' kamikrazi _feral_!” He wipes blood from his mouth and then squares up, grinning like a fiend. “Fine. Keep the fuckin' jacket. But I'm takin' the Rig.”

The Bloodbag snarls, brings his fists up, waits for Nux to advance, just like Nux wants him to. Nux cackles, happily, brings his own fists up, sings, “Oh what a day! What a _lovely_ day!” with eyes wide and chest heaving.

Anything to keep the Bloodbag's attention focused on _him_ as he shuffles forward.

The Fool suddenly turns, drops, grabs the War Boy that had been sneaking up on him, the first one that he'd thought that he'd just pitched off the roof with that leg sweep- Who had apparently caught himself on one of the chains mounted to the side of the wagon for just such a purpose. This time, he makes sure that the War Boy won't be coming back, by breaking his neck first, and _then_ pitching him off the side.

Nux stumbles, shocked, and doesn't get his fists up in time to block when the Bloodbag slams a fist into his gut hard enough to fling him off over the side. He flies out far enough, that there are no chains for him to try and grab hold of, and the Bloodbag watches as he hits the ground hard and rolls.

Catching his breath, the Fool takes the time to stalk down one side of the roof to check the side and make sure there's no more surprises clinging on, and back up the other checking that side, too, before finally returning to the front. This time, when he flips over the front of the roof to drop to the bench of the driver's box, he isn't quite as graceful as he had been the first time. But it's at least not a completely uncoordinated flop.

“No more,” he offers as he settles to a seat.

“We're entering into Rock Biter territory,” Furiosa replies. “The Buzzards are too smart to cross them. We should be clear for a while, then.”

Over the mountains just ahead of them, the first rays of the morning sun breaks over them all, and the mules slow to a tired trot.

“None too soon.” She pulls the mules to a stop with a low, “Whoa.”

“Furiosa?” Capable asks, worried.

“Just need to renew the spell,” Furiosa replies, setting the reins aside and standing up to lift her seat and fish out the bag with the enchanted biscuits. “They only work dusk to dawn or dawn to dusk. Time to start fresh. Then we'll get going again before we lose our lead.”

The Fool nods, and stretches his neck and shoulders for a second, before pointing toward the roof. “Ammunition.”

“Good idea. I'm low, Toast is out. And-- what'd you do? Rob a War Boy?” she asks, nodding toward the patched leather coat he was now wearing, with its one pauldron over a shortened arm, with some odd stitching that she could see on the equally patched fabric on the inside of one flap.

He scowls fiercely, one hand smoothing down over the leather. “S' _mine_. They stole it from _me_.” He doesn't wait for any kind of answer to his snarled declaration before climbing back to the roof and stalking back out of sight.

“Are we sure _he's_ not the one who's pregnant?” Dag mutters with a nudge to Angharad's side. “Because schlanger's moodier than a milker gone halflife.”

“Dag!” Cheedo scolds, although the effect is somewhat diminished by the snicker.

“He did just help save our lives,” Angharad says.

“Well, we kinda saved his by bringing him with us, so... he doesn't have to be so angry all the time,” Toast grumbles.

Furiosa has dug out the eight biscuits and stowed the rest of the bag back under her seat again by this time. “Prep the weapons. We'll need them again soon.”

By the time she's fed all eight mules their biscuits, he's back with ammunition gathered from the archer's roosts, and everyone is busy matching bolts and quarrels and arrows to their respective bows and crossbows.

Too busy, unfortunately, to notice the white-painted form running to catch up with the wagon before it manages to get going too fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I mentioned that portions of this are going to be something of a Fix-It Fic? Because.... portions of this may be something of a Fix-It Fic. If that wasn't already clear by Ace not getting booted off the War Rig by a gun to the face, I mean. Also, he really wasn't supposed to show up this soon. But he had Opinions. And he was Impatient. So, yeah. All y'all got some Ace. Early. I hope you don't mind?


	11. The Rock Biter's Pass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nux pops up again, the girls muse some about their Fool, and Furiosa has to renegotiate with the Rock Biters. All in a day's work, right?

The mules have hit their stride, pulling well in their traces, although Furiosa wishes that they could have dared take a long enough break to water them, rather than just refresh the biscuits. Perhaps on the other side of the pass. Once the sun is up high enough, and she can truly gauge their lead, she'll know better when they can risk a longer stop.

The girls, at least, will appreciate a longer stop, she thinks. Perhaps the Fool can help them with their Chastity Belts while she waters the mules, since no one else will be able to help her with that task. Furiosa remembers all too well the discomfort of wearing the wretched things. The metal biting into her thighs and into her hips, making finding a comfortable position to sleep in difficult, if not impossible, some nights. She still has no idea, really, if distance will weaken the be-spelled locks holding the belts on. She can only hope; if not, surely one of the mages with her people will be able to break the spell.

Beside her, the Fool has finally gotten all the weapons sorted to his satisfaction, with fresh ammunition placed nearby for each one. He's currently examining her special crossbow with an admiring eye. 

“Built it myself,” she offers as she glances over at him.

He flicks a look at her, then goes back to examining the hopper that automatically feeds the bolts into the firing mechanism for her. He nods, giving a grunt that Furiosa takes as approval as he flips it over to peer at the way she had built the cocking mechanism, designed with a second grip that jutted down so that she could simply pull it back to reset the string, and the same action would drop a fresh bolt down, making it ready to fire again.

“Only fifteen shots before I have to reload the whole thing, but that's a lot more shots than most opponents can get off in the same time,” she explains.

He nods, then carefully straps her crossbow into the holster on the ceiling of the box above her where she can grab it easily.

“'S good,” he says quietly, almost getting drowned out by the rumble and ring of iron-shod hooves on sand and stone. “'S a solid design.”

Furiosa blinks, surprised at his words - honestly surprised _more_ that he'd said anything at all, really, than that they'd been words of praise. But they _had_ been words of praise, and that... well, frankly shocks her, too. She's not quite sure how to respond to that, when the choice is taken out of her hands by a sudden thumping racket, and a shudder that she can feel in the way the War Rig is handling.

Furiosa frowns and settles back to press her back against the seat and her calves against the boards of the box for a moment, letting the War Rig speak to her in the subtle shifts of wood and iron and steel and chain.

“Do you feel that?” she asks him. “Something's dragging. Out back. Must have knocked some cargo loose in the fight.”

“Got it.”

She nods, wondering if it's intuition, or if she's just already getting used to the taciturn man, to have caught the unspoken, “I've,” that had started his curt declaration as he'd stood up and climbed back to the roof to head to the back. Maybe both. She can't help but to wonder just how long he's going to be willing to stick with them, on their mad dash across the wastes.

Maybe... Maybe all the way?

He doesn't really have that many other options, after all, and, despite how badly he'd ended up altering the original plan, it's turned out... She hesitates to complete the thought, unwilling to jinx their luck. They still have to make it through the pass. They still have to make it through the wastes beyond. There's still at least one entire war party behind them, and more likely three.

Furiosa is just thankful at that moment that she hadn't had to put a bolt in Ace's head, or shove him from the Rig to go under the wheels or down the gullet of a Buzzard bird. Her Boys are... not here, and Ace will talk them out of whatever accusations Joe or the other Imperators tries to lay on them. It's better than she could have hoped for, even before some feral wastelander fool had crashed her plan.

Their Skins, and his skills with bow and blade and saddle... well... that's a boon all unasked for and unexpected, and she can't help but to hope that he's willing to continue to lend them the whole way. And that he manages to stay alive to continue to lend them the whole way. She leans out to look down the length of the wagon, as if she could see him walking down the roof line. 

The Fool, however, is out of her sight already, hanging down the back of the War Rig, his hand clenched tight around a chain, as he leans down as low as he can get. There's a barrel bouncing along, banging against the bottom edge of the wagon, thumping occasionally against one rear wheel or the other with a dull crack. 

It's no cargo that's been jostled loose though. That rope has been knotted around that barrel in a couple directions, all on purpose, meant to keep the barrel from bouncing itself completely loose, too soon.

It's a distraction. Damn it!

He snarls, uses his knife and a perfectly timed lunge to cut the barrel free, before going through the archer's nest into the cargo space below. He needs to pull up the rest of the rope before it fouls the axle and tears the wagon up. They'll _all_ be in worse trouble if they lose the axle. Furiosa is a warrior. He's got to trust that she can handle herself for the moments it's going to take him to secure that rope. 

Even so, he worries as he yanks the rope up through the open panel of the wagon's underbelly, not even bothering to spool it carefully, but simply dumping it in a pile to one side before going for the front again, where he can hear shouting.

In the driver's box, Furiosa had just turned back towards the front, when the hidden access to the cargo had slammed open, and a War Boy had popped out, flinging himself from the midst of the startled Wives with a length of rope in his hands. With a shout of triumph, Nux had looped the rope over Furiosa's head, pulled it tight around her neck, and started choking her.

“FILTH! You traitored him!”

Nux, however, had assumed that the women at his back had been kidnapped... and had not been willing participants in their own “abduction”. Otherwise, he might not have so willingly left them at his back.

Dag leaps on Nux's back and tries to claw his eyes out, while Capable wrenches at his shoulders, and Angharad is grabbing at his right wrist, while Cheedo is grabbing at his left wrist. 

The Fool arrives over the top of the driver's box into the middle of a cacophonous racket, just in time to keep the reins from slipping down to the ground; he snatches at them and wraps them around the holder as Furiosa rolls back and rips the rope from around her neck. Nux vanishes under a pile of white clad women in the back, even as Furiosa turns to dive over the back of her own seat with a knife in her hand. He would join her, but the girls seem to have it well in hand, even _without_ Furiosa's help. 

“He is the one who grabbed the sun!” Nux cries, though it's a bit muffled under the pile.

“He's a filthy, lying old man!” Toast screams.

Limbs flail; the Fool watches with wide eyes as the women tangle together and the War Boy has still not resurfaced. Oh, wait, there's his bare foot. And there's a hand - and there it goes. Angharad shoves Furiosa away with a fierce scowl, and holds her ground when Furiosa makes as if to dive back in. 

_“No unnecessary killing!”_ Angharad's voice is firm, ringing almost like a bell.

“This War Boy wants me dead!” Furiosa growls.

“No, we agreed! He's just a kid at the end of his half-life. We'll pitch him off,” Capable yells.

“Hmm. Tried that,” Fool offers with a shrug. Angharad glares at him. He... strategically retreats a few inches. 

“Yeah, we'll throw him off!” Dag agrees. “Tie his hands!”

“No! I live! I die! I'll live again!” Nux yells.

“Look how slick he's fooled you, War Boy,” Toast hisses, as they finally let him resurface, his hands bound by a strip of white cloth.

“By his hand, we'll be lifted up!”

“That's why we have his brand seared on our backs! Breeding stock and battle fodder!” Capable screams as she reaches over him to unlatch the door.

“NO! I am AWAITED!”

“You're an old coward's battle fodder!” Capable snarls, shifting to help the others lift him upright a bit.

“No! No! We are not to blame!” he cries, flailing as best he can with bound hands.

“Then who killed the world!?” Angharad demands as she gives him one solid shove, right in the middle of his chest. They all watch as he tumbles out backward, hitting a bank of sand. The Fool scrambles up to the roof and over to that side, checking just to make sure that the War Boy doesn't manage to miraculously catch hold of the side yet again.

He doesn't.

The girls are all settling back into their seats as he drops back down to the driver's bench again, although their cheeks are all still flushed with anger and excitement.

He feels at once both a little less, and a little more, comfortable settling back into his own seat, with the five of them at his back, all too aware that they are not nearly as helpless as they had seemed at first. Toast, obviously, has been holding her own tolerably well with a crossbow, but the sheer viciousness with which the “no unnecessary killing” girls had flung the War Boy out of the wagon, after banding together to subdue him in the first place, is a bit of an eye-opener.

“We're not far from the pass,” Furiosa says, breaking into his thoughts. She's settled back into her seat, reins gathered back up, her own cheeks still just a tiny bit flushed, but she's nodding toward the mountains ahead, the break in the low foothills they've been starting to climb since just before the sun had broken into the sky. “I've bartered safe passage, but I'll need your help to unload the barrels.”

He nods and undoes the bandages on his hands to rewrap them tighter, since they've slipped, with all the fighting and climbing about he's been doing. 

“When we get a bit higher, I'll need you to check our back trail, too. See if you can tell how much lead we still have. What our pursuit looks like,” she adds. 

“Expecting company?”

"Besides the war parties on our tail?" Furiosa shakes her head, watches the road carefully for shifts in the sand as she guides the mules. “No. Nothing else in Rock Biter territory.”

“Hm. Go up now,” he says, as he grabs his bow and a handful of arrows and climbs up to the roof.

Furiosa nods, once again catching the words he drops - the missing, “I'll,” at the beginning, and the, “then,” at the end.

“He doesn't like us much, does he?” Cheedo asks the others quietly.

“Why do you think that?” Capable wonders.

“Because he takes any chance he can to get away from us. Goes up there,” she explains with a wave of her hand toward the roof of the War Rig, “at the first opportunity.”

“I think he's used to being alone,” Angharad offers softly, looking toward the others and then nodding silently toward Furiosa. _You know, just like someone else here was used to, before_ , she seems to say. “I think he's been used to being alone for a long time.”

“Do you think that he'll come with us to the Green Place?” Cheedo asks.

“Do we want him to?” Dag asks, scowling, as she inspects a pair of heavy black boots and pulls them on.

Cheedo reaches across to rest her hand upon Dag's arm, brushing her fingertips up and down pale skin in a soft, soothing gesture. Dag had done much to turn Joe's attention from Cheedo to herself, to protect Cheedo from the tyrant's temper and attention. She hurts. They all hurt, but Dag has pulled that hurt deep inside, nurtured it into a curdled stone that almost seems to choke her sometimes. Cheedo would take it from her, if she could.

“He _has_ helped us a lot,” Capable offers. “And the Citadel hurt him, too.”

“Took some blood. Whatever. Joe hurt us worse,” Dag growls, shifting lower in her seat, then snarls silently and pulls her swan feathers up to her chest to hug tightly to herself as she shifts again, trying to get comfortable. 

Capable winces in sympathy; the chastity belts hurt, and the bouncing of the War Rig is really not helping any of them one bit. Hopefully they'll be able to stop sometime today for long enough to try and get them off. She isn't really looking forward to having to wait until they reach the Green Place for someone to magic them away. 

“Joe took everything from him, just like Joe took everything from us,” Angharad breaks in, her voice quiet, but firm as she turns to meet each of their gazes. “He tried to make the Fool a thing just as much as he tried to make _us_ things.” She holds up a hand to forestall Dag's impending outburst. “Yes, Joe hurt us. We know that. We don't need to prove that to each other, or to him. But we had _some_ protections, up in the Vault... and I don't think that he did. That any of the bloodbags did. Don't rail at me Dag. But think about it. We only had to endure the Organic once a month. He had to endure the Organic every day."

That makes Dag freeze. It makes everyone freeze and clutch their skins tighter to themselves for a moment. 

“We still had Joe,” Toast mutters, rubbing her cheek against silver-grey fur.

Everyone nods to that.

“It's not a competition, though,” Capable says. “It can't be. We can't be like that.”

Angharad nods, meets everyone's eyes again until each of them nod, even Dag, although it takes a moment or two longer for her to finally, begrudgingly, give in.

“And not everyone is going to be a Joe,” Angharad says quietly. “We... we have to believe that.”

“You can believe that, if you want,” Dag mutters, hugging swan feathers tightly as she turns to glare out the window beside her and stomps her feet in her boots.

Capable huffs a worried sigh and almost reaches out toward Dag, but Cheedo nudges her and shakes her head, warning her away, mouthing, “ _Not now_.” Capable nods, unhappy, but trusting Cheedo's judgment. Dag's always been closest to Cheedo anyway.

There's a thump above as the Fool hops around the Archer's perch, and then a few moments later, he appears overhead, leaning down.

“Dust, beyond the horizon.”

Furiosa sways in her seat with the motion of the War Rig as she guides them around the rocks and obstacles of the canyon slowly beginning to rise around them. 

“Unless they round up the Oryx, that's about an hour lead. Maybe less,” she calculates, then frowns. “I was hoping for more. We'll have to work fast, and hope the Rock Biters don't give us any trouble.”

He drops down onto the bench and gives her a questioning look and a low grunt as he stows his bow and the arrows again.

“We're almost there. Go down below and get six barrels of Mother's Milk ready to offload. Those are the barrels towards the back,” Furiosa orders.

He nods and hops over the bench to the passenger box with the girls, eyes darting around to each of them quickly before he jerks his chin toward the hidden door on the floor to the cargo space. Angharad nods back to him and shifts out of his way so that he can reach it easier, and he flicks another glance over them all again before slipping through and shutting it behind him. Quiet settles over them for a couple minutes, until there's a solid knock from the hidden hatch that startles all the girls. It takes until the second knock for Capable to lean down – since Angharad's swollen belly prevents her from doing so – and cautiously lift open the door.

“Umm... here,” the Fool says, thrusting up three sloshing water skins.

Capable blinks in surprise as she takes them. “Oh, um, thank-” He's already ducking away before she can finish. “-you.” 

Even Angharad is a bit surprised by this, as Capable passed the water around. 

“Here Furiosa,” Capable says, leaning up to hand over one of the bladders. “Water.”

“Thanks,” Furiosa replies, quickly sucking down half, before passing it back in the traditional Wasteland fashion. Capable accepts it back with a smile, and finishes the rest herself.

“You don't think he _heard_ us, do you?” Cheedo leans over to whisper to her.

Capable shakes her head. “No. I think he's just... trying?” She replies hesitantly. “I think Angharad's right. He's like Furiosa. He's just... not used to being around anyone, really, and he's... He's trying to remember what it's like, maybe.”

Their quiet musing is interrupted by Furiosa as she begins calling out to the mules and hauling on the reins, slowing the War Rig down as they come around a sharp bend in the road. Ahead, there is a high arch of rock overhead, that she steers them through slowly, the wreckage of wagons and the bleached bones of animals scattered to either side of the smoothed, sandy road. The mules' hoofbeats echo in the narrow canyon as she brings them to a cautious stop once they are well beyond the arch.

“Stay here, and stay quiet,” Furiosa orders them as she winds the reins around the holder by her seat before hopping down.

As she steps away from the wagon, she raises her hands above her head and faces the canyon wall. “I've brought my half of the bargain,” Furiosa yells, the echoes of her voice bouncing up and down the canyon until they fade into the silence. She waits for a moment, before slowly walking toward the back of the wagon. She's almost reached the back when there is a low rumble, and a few rocks tumble and roll from the ridge to the canyon floor. 

Figures appear along the ridge where no figures had been before, keeping to the shadows that the higher peaks of the canyon walls around them throw. The voice, when it speaks, sounds of stone and of earth and of the sand that grinds over the bones bleaching in the sun.

“This is not what we agreed upon.”

“I know I'm early-” Furiosa begins.

“The stones sing to us. _Three_ full war parties. That is more than you said. And there is a seventh in your hold.”

Furiosa turns to stare up at the Rock Biter. “My plan had to change because of him. I couldn't leave him behind. It wouldn't have been honorable.”

Even from where she is standing, she can see the craggy faced troll-kin smirk at that, as if he is privy to some joke that she is not. “It was not what we agreed. Six barrels for safe passage for six.”

Furiosa frowns. She knows immediately what the Rock Biter is angling for now. That extra barrel of Mother's Milk could go far in the Green Place...

But they have to _get there_ first.

“And if I offer the seventh barrel, then what will you demand as reparations for the extra war parties?” Furiosa demands shrewdly. There's no time to draw the bargain out. Every moment she wastes talking brings Joe that much closer.

There is a rumble of rock from all around them, as if the ground itself is laughing. The voices of stone and of earth and of the sand that grinds over the bones bleaching in the sun join the rumble until the canyon shakes with it, and pebbles and grit shake loose from the walls and trickle to the floor of the pass, leaving thin little trails of dust in their wake. 

“So long as they leave us to our caves, what happens above the stones in the light of day is no concern of ours.”

“Seven barrels, then, for seven, and you'll drop the rocks?” Furiosa asks.

“Done,” the Rock Biter replies, and with another rumble, a small cave opens up not ten steps away, just large enough to fit seven barrels of Mother's milk.

Furiosa wastes no time in turning to unlatch the side of the Wagon, dropping the panel and folding it down. “Down here, help me with this,” she orders the Fool, who hops out and joins her under the wagon. From there, they remove a pair of heavy rails, whose ends slot into brackets carved into inside of the door she'd opened up, forming a ramp to roll the barrels down. He looks this over, and nods at Furiosa to climb up inside to push the barrels down to him while the Rock Biters watch from the shadows of the ridge above them.

The barrels are heavy, and he has to throw his whole body against them as they reach the sand in order to catch them, and then again to get them turned and rolling to the little cave. By the time the fourth barrel is unloaded, both he and Furiosa are panting and drenched with sweat. 

But they can also both feel the first tremor under their boots, a distant thunder of hooves and claws and wheels approaching. They work faster.

By the time the seventh barrel is rolling to the sand, the tremor is a thunder that is beginning to pour up the pass, and it's interspersed with the whinnies of horses and the calls of the Capricines, the goat-dogs that so many of the War Boys favor. Furiosa scrambles down from the wagon and helps the Fool push the barrel into the little cave, giving the wood of the barrel a slap as it settles into place.

“There! It's in! Drop the rocks! You have your payment!”

She doesn't wait to watch, but turns back to the War Rig, to pull down the rails, to fasten up the side again, to bolt it in place tightly against attack. If the Rock Biters double cross her...

But they do not.

The small rumble of the cave sealing again is joined by a larger one, just as the first wagons and Capricine come into sight around the bend behind them. As if in slow motion, the rocks of the archway bend and sway and begin to tumble down. First a few, then more, then great massive boulders join the flow, pulling down the precarious piles above them, until the arch has vanished into a cloud of dust and a thunderous roar that moans, “ _It Is Done Daughter of the Green_.”

_This_ the mules dance in place at. It's just a bit bigger than a thunderstick blast after all.

Furiosa pants where she's crouched under the belly of the War Rig, catching her breath beside the Fool. He eyes her sidelong, then nods toward the rails, asking with a look if they have time to load them. She nods, and they heave to before swinging back up to the driver's box, both of them still a bit out of breath and glancing back behind them for anyone brave enough to risk the rockfall, yet.

Not yet, but soon, she thinks, as she slaps the reins hard and calls to the mules to head out, the dust flowing after them in a thick wake.

Not yet. But soon.


End file.
